1.
Art doesn’t die in a blaze of glory. It starves to death slowly, quietly, while everyone watches. So morbid, Sasha. God, tonight she’s really frothing envy and spite. Stepping off the pavement to cross Karl-Marx-Straẞe, her thumb hovers over the phone screen. A cyclist whooshes past her as she scrolls to Liv’s latest text – Fortifying drink at the Blue Note before we suffer those smug Orpheon pricks? There’s that hollow sensation again, as though someone’s reached inside and scooped out her insides. Yep, she really does need that drink. She shoves the phone into her coat pocket, heading right instead of left.
The smoky scent from nearby döner stalls tinges the night air. Kreuzberg pulses distant club music, graffiti gleaming under streetlights, Spring café tables still scattered with early-evening lingerers. She sidesteps a group laughing too loudly, their breath frosting in the air, and approaches the familiar glow spilling softly from behind the Blue Note's windows.
She pushes through the brass-plated door, stepping into the familiar, crowded warmth. The place is packed, as usual, vibrating with that effortless Berlin cool Sasha has never quite mastered.
Like plunging into dark water, she navigates through the throng. Her shoulder brush against a man in an oversized jacket whose cologne smells like a midlife crisis. What is it with these people? They reek of misguided aspirations and half-baked ambitions.
Liv is at the bar, luminous in her usual mess of elegance, exhaling smoke toward the ceiling, the curling tendrils a testament to her singularity. Pretentious indie types swarm around her, clinging to their overpriced drinks as if they’re talismans of authenticity. Low jazz filters through the speakers, half-drowned by the rhythmic clang of glass against wood, the murmur of conversations in German, Turkish, and English. There’s the sharp bite of espresso in the air and painfully optimistic orange peel from a cocktail someone is pretending to enjoy.
Liv leans over the counter, expertly flagging down the bartender, her silver bracelets jangling like a tiny disco party. She orders without asking – gin and tonic for herself, whiskey neat for Sasha. ‘You’re welcome.’ She grinds out her cigarette in an ashtray and slides the glass across.
Sasha takes a sip, relishing the burn settling behind her ribs. ‘You didn’t ask if I wanted one.’
‘Please. Like you’d say no.’
Fair enough. ‘But I’ll get it.’ She taps her watch to the machine the bartender holds forth.
Liv’s laughter is thin, brittle even, like glass balanced on a ledge. ‘Thanks. There’s a table free over there.’ She reaches down and lifts an anorexic shrunken whippety-looking dog, tucking it under her arm and collecting her drink.
Sasha blinks. ‘Don’t tell me he’s yours.’
‘Remember Hansi who ghosted me after telling me I was too much? It’s his Italian greyhound.’
Sasha struggles to connect the dots as they make their way to a free table in a dimly lit corner. The dog curls up beneath it, pinning her in place, his head on her foot. She wants to brush him off, but she’s always been afraid that her mild dislike of animals will be seen as evidence that she’s a psychopath. ‘I don’t quite follow. If he ghosted you, how do you have his dog? You didn’t kidnap it, did you?’ She wouldn’t put it past Liv to have done exactly that. ‘Oh my god. Did you murder him so you could keep the dog?’ She wouldn’t put that past Liv either. Her crime novels held a raw authenticity, though Liv claims it came from interviewing prisoners.
Liv laughs, throaty and full of the famous sensuality that’s lured so many to her bed. ‘His brother gave him to me by way of an apology from Hansi.’
‘So not quite ghosted then.’ From the way Liv says brother, it’s certain she’s slept with him. ‘Wait. Is Christian Hansi’s brother?’
Liv gives an all too pleased smile. ‘Anyway. My mother bailed on dog-sitting at the last minute. So you, dear friend, are about to become the proud foster mother of one highly dramatic pooch.’
Sasha recoils, her skin positively crawling so she squirms in her seat. ‘Liv, I don’t do dogs.’
‘That’s what people say before they do dogs.’
‘Can’t Hansi take him?’
‘Nope.’
No explanation. Fine. ‘Dogs require maintenance. Planning. I’m a free-wheeling creative.’
‘Ah, but look at all that structure that goes into plotting your novels. You’ll be great at it. Just think of it as a three-part act, and I – the glorious epilogue – will be back at the end of the third day. Besides, you’ll hardly notice he’s there.’
A slow glance down. The dog – Rolfi, as his ridiculously gold-engraved tag states – peers up with the heavy sorrow of a poet on his deathbed.
‘Looks like a whippet someone put in the dryer.’
‘That’s offensive to both whippets and Italians. And to people who accidentally put wool sweaters in the dryer.’
‘What’s wrong with its legs? Why are they so skinny? Why is he so skinny?’
‘That’s just how they are. Like you being neurotic.’
‘I’m not neurotic.’
‘Sure. And I don’t hate Hitler.’ Liv grins, already victorious. Rolfi does a little spin, completely oblivious to the chaos unfolding around him.
Sasha sighs through her teeth, dragging a hand through her hair. ‘Fine.’
‘Knew you’d come around.’ Liv’s mask is suddenly off, her face crumpling. ‘I really need this weekend away, Sash.’ Liv’s voice shakes, tears threatening to spill. ‘I'm broke. I have no publishing deal. What am I even doing?’
Sasha opens her mouth, reaching instinctively for a comforting platitude, but her own bitterness catches in her throat. Liv isn’t drowning in the same quicksand of disappointment – she's never stood on the cusp of literary acclaim, never felt the devastating plummet of a major literary prize slipping through her fingers. Liv’s problems are tangible, solvable by something as mundane as money. Sasha’s are carved from humiliation etched deep by public rejection.
Liv slugs back her gin. ‘It’s not like I can even go write for the newspaper. I read that last Monday the rest of Morgenpost’s staff was let go. All AI now. And why the fuck do they still call them newspapers when they’re all online these days.’
Sasha flares her nostrils, breathing in slowly. That is one thing she’s never agreed on with the environmentalists. Newspapers, fine, but talking banning the printing of books, even on recycled paper, is taking things too far. There’s nothing like the feel and smell of a book in your hands, the crisp swish and thrill of turning a page to read what happens next.
‘I just don’t know what I’m going to do,’ Liv whispers, fingers stroking the wet side of her glass, up and down, up and down. ‘God. I might even have to marry someone just for the security. How low is that?’
‘I thought you had another novel coming out next month.’
Liv snorts. ‘Cancelled. Those wankers at Orpheon are releasing 8,000 AI-written novels this year. Most of them are thrillers, mysteries or romance.’ She stabs a finger at Sasha. ‘At least you have the sense to write sad-girl literary. Those AI shit-bots will never be able to replace that.’
Sasha bites her tongue. No, they won’t, but that hasn’t stopped other writers replacing her. Namely Brigus bloody Anan.
Fear stirs softly in Sasha’s gut. Ridiculous. Her next novel is almost finished and it’s even better than the last, crafted from her torment and honed with her angst. In fact, she’s almost grateful to Brigus Anan for making her a stronger writer. Bastard. She’d still like to slash his face with a kitchen knife. He’s not going to pip her at next year's awards. And tonight, she'll look him straight in the eye and enjoy saying she has not read his damned book. Maybe she’ll spill wine on him, just accidentally enough to ruin that smug grin he always wears in the promotional photos. The image makes her smile, childish but satisfying.
The air in the bar shifts, a frizz of electricity passing across her shoulder blades. Glancing across the room, her eyes meet a gaze so unexpectedly intense she feels it like a physical touch. The man at the bar – tall, long brown curls pulled into a ponytail, something restless and magnetic in the way he leans against the counter – holds her stare just a beat too long. Heat prickles beneath her skin.
A ghost of a smile teases his lips as he raises his glass slightly in greeting.
Liv’s fingers snapping in her face. ‘Sash?’
There’s something instinctive and dangerous pulling her focus away, and she pinches the inside of her wrist to break it. ‘Sorry.’ Her throat tightens inexplicably. When she looks back again, he’s gone.
‘So, about tonight.’ Liv blows an exaggerated puff of air through her lips. ‘Since I’m on the verge of internally combusting, there’s a change of plans.’
Sasha narrows her eyes. ‘Liv—’
‘I know, I know. But listen. Christian and I are leaving first thing tomorrow for Sweden. There’s a summer cottage, a lake, a weekend with a distinct lack of life-ruining obligations—’
‘You’re bailing on me for a fling and some pine trees?’ Sasha rolls her glass between her palms, trying to ignore the irritation prickling at her spine. It’s not that she needs Liv to be at Brigus Anan’s book launch, but – okay, maybe she does. In case she gets an irrepressible urge to find a knife and stab him. Plus, she’s never been great at social gatherings on her own. It’s that whole problem of what to talk about to complete strangers once you get past the obvious things.
Liv grins, utterly unrepentant and looking more like her normal self. ‘Half correct. After the launch. So I won’t be carrying on afterwards like we planned.’
There’s a twang inside Sasha, like a bruise pressed and now released. They’d planned to go to the book launch and then get horribly drunk afterwards as they toasted Brigus Anan to hell. She’d just have to do it on her own.
ψ
When they slip out of the Blue Note onto the busy evening street, Liv hands Sasha Rolfi’s ridiculously diamond-studded leash, whilst Liv waxes on about her upcoming romantic getaway with Christian, fling number 69 by Sasha’s reckoning.
Rolfi is not built for efficiency.
Sasha realizes this exactly ten minutes into their walk towards the book launch, when the Italian greyhound – a breed that apparently evolved solely to be an ornamental accessory – turns a simple commute into something she can’t even name.
First, there’s the stopping.
Every. Few. Metres.
Sniffing lampposts. Fixating on the pigeons as if trying to calculate their purpose in the grand design of the universe – and coming up short. Rolfi shies away from his own reflection in a shop window, and each time Sasha tugs the leash, he resists, eyes wide with heartbreaking indecision as if she’s just proposed a philosophical dilemma.
She sighs through her nose, checking the time. ‘You are not a philosopher. Move.’
A little defiant whine escapes him, as though he’d like to refute the fact.
Liv is still running her mouth. ‘Honestly, Sasha, I’ve never believed in soulmates, but Christian has a lakehouse and knows how to chop firewood. Tell me that’s not destiny. And he's got great forearms. That has to count for something.’
Sasha can’t help but laugh. Rolfi slips behind her to the curbside and the street.
A cyclist.
She clocks the danger half a second too late. A flash of movement in the corner of her vision – the unmistakable hum of rubber on asphalt—
And Rolfi, in a rare burst of momentum, lunges sideways, as if startled by a gust of existential dread. The leash jerks violently. She stumbles into the bike lane. The cyclist swerves, curses in German—
Too late.
The man goes down. Liv screams. A clatter of metal. A groan. A slew of very bad German words.
She blinks. ‘Shit.’
Rolfi, utterly unbothered by the chaos he’s caused, looks up at her as if to say, This is your fault, his expression a blend of confusion and misplaced innocence.
Liv rushes to help the cyclist, brushing dust from his trousers as he rises. He levels Sasha with a glare that could cut glass. ‘You should not own a dog if you can’t control it.’
‘Trust me, I don’t.’ She points to Liv, delighted to shift the blame. ‘It’s hers.’
He scowls at Liv, does a double-take, the scowl vanishing only to be redirected at Sasha as he mutters something, remounting his bike and shaking his head as if she personally offended him. He pedals off into the night and Liv crouches down, petting and clucking over Rolfi. ‘Poor baby. Did the nasty lady try to kill you?’
‘That’s why I don’t do dogs. And technically, it was the cyclist that almost killed him.’ Sasha, still holding Rolfi’s leash, tugs it, dragging him back into motion again.
ψ
The book café is packed. Tables have been pushed against the bookcases to make space for mingling. People bubble together, murmuring with anticipation, eyes bright in the way only true believers can manage, waiting for this year’s most anticipated release amongst the thousands of new novels spewed out by AI at dizzying speed. The hum of conversation swells and dips like a tide, filling the overheated space with energy that feels almost palpable.
Sasha leans close to Liv. ‘Are dogs allowed in here?’
A careless shrug. ‘Technically, no, but if this soulless husk of mass-market publishing gets to parade around unchecked, then so does Rolfi. I’m going to work the room in case there’s a stray publisher who might want to publish me.’
Before Sasha can stop her, Liv sashays into the crowd and disappears.
At Sasha’s feet, Rolfi shifts, thin legs trembling in protest at the sheer injustice of existing in such a crush. He lets out a quiet, soulful sigh, as if contemplating the weight of the universe. ‘You and me both, pal.’
A man to her right scrolls through an Orpheon e-reader, the glow illuminating his oversized tortoiseshell glasses. She cranes her neck to see the title – Billionaire Prince’s Secret Baby Bride – and vomits a little in her mouth. Maybe she should start a support group for post-readers of shallow storytelling.
Behind her, two women whisper animatedly, comparing copies of Orpheon’s last bestseller on their ereaders in their best BookTok voices. The slightly performative reverence for things deemed groundbreaking despite having been generated in under five minutes by a machine fed on millions of scrapped human-generated novels.
‘This one’s supposed to be just so emotional,’ one of them sighs, clutching the book to her chest.
‘God, I know. The twist at the end? Devastating. I read a spoiler thread and still cried.’
Sasha risks a glance at the title. My Husband’s Other Soul: A Reincarnation Romance.
She looks away before her brain starts hemorrhaging. A drink. She needs a drink, and scans the room for the free alcohol plied at these events, squeezing between two hefty men talking self-help books like all that AI-generated advice is the new messiah.
A parting in the crowd and she catches a glimpse of Liv, playfully hitting a man’s shoulder, his hand snaking to her waist as he tips back his head, a bounce of dark curls gleaming, and laughs at something she’s said. Sharp-jawed, there’s a shadow of stubble that only adds to his effortless allure. His shirt stretches just right across his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up enough to reveal forearms that could make poets weep. The kind of man who radiates heat, confidence, charm that isn’t practiced but simply is. Oh Lord, don’t forget you’re going away with someone else tonight, Liv.
Reaching the palm-flanked marble counter at the back of the room, she gives a gratuitous smile to the man behind the bar, snatches up a champagne flute, and downs it one long swallow.
A voice beside her, smooth as honeyed bourbon, says, ‘Should I be keeping up? Is there a reason we're drinking like it's the end of days that I don't know about?’
She turns sharply, nearly choking. The guy from the Blue Note. Hair a smoky honey blond under the lights, eyes nearly matching, flecked with grey. The intensity of his gaze sends warmth rushing to her cheeks. A faint blue streak of paint sits along the sharp line of his jaw.
‘You’ve got a bit of paint – right there.’ Sasha gestures toward her own jaw.
He touches the wrong side.
She shakes her head, biting back a smile, and points again. ‘Other side.’ He rubs it away, and she notices more paint beneath his fingernails. ‘House painter?’ she teases lightly, nerves oddly fluttering.
He laughs softly, the sound sending sparks dancing along her spine. ‘Artist, actually. Oils, mostly.’ He holds out a hand, blue-smudged fingertips and all. ‘Leo.’
‘Sasha,’ she murmurs, suddenly unable to recall basic manners. Her pulse quickens, echoing in her ears, louder than the buzz of conversation around them.
Leo gestures at the crowd with a wry smile. ‘You a fan of…’ he squints at the screen, ‘Brigus Anan?’
‘Not exactly.’ Her laugh feels brittle, forced. ‘More like the opposite.’
