The cold air bit into the skin even though the shoot was done indoors in Studio Lot B in Queens. The studio ceiling felt lower that night, as if bowing under the weight of the script about to be concluded.
On the set of the interrogation room—a room that had witnessed the most painful dialogues between Kevin and the world for two seasons—the spotlights had been on since eight. A faint haze from the fog machine still floated in the air. Everything seemed ready, except for time.
Joey Carter sat quietly in a corner of the room, wearing his final costume: a black leather jacket, a dark gray shirt, and hands slightly trembling from exhaustion and caffeine. His blond hair was casually combed, his bangs falling onto his forehead. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. Everyone knew this wasn't just a closing scene. It was a kind of funeral—for a character who had grown alongside the wounds on his own body.
Charlie Douglas, the director, stood behind the monitor, his hand touching his headset without really listening. He simply stared at the screen. The screen reflecting Joey's face, or perhaps Kevin's. At this point, the two were hard to tell apart.
"Joey," Sheira's soft voice sounded from off-frame. She offered a cup of warm lemon tea, as usual. A small ritual that made the world feel manageable, if only for a moment.
Joey gave a slight nod and accepted it. His eyes looked empty. But not from loss. More like... an anticipation of loss.
"Take one for the final scene. Camera rolling," the operator said.
"Sound rolling."
"Scene 2x10. Final interrogation. Final draft. Take 1. Action."
Silence.
Joey—Kevin—raised his head. His gaze was sharp but weary. He stared at Eli Voss, played by Leonhard Stahl, who sat across the interrogation table. Voss didn't move. His hands were clasped, resting on the table. The two simply stared at each other. No music. No effects. Only the ticking of an old clock in the background—a sound that wasn't actually in the script but was left in because it was perfect.
"I rewrote the ending of this story," Kevin said softly. "But no one wanted to read it."
Cut. Silence. No one spoke immediately.
Joey kept staring forward, even after the camera stopped. His lips were slightly parted. As if he forgot this was just a scene. Or perhaps, he truly wanted to believe that Kevin could end something.
Charlie gave a slow nod. "Take one. Clean. We got it."
But there was no cheering. No applause.
Because everyone knew—what remained after this was emptiness.
Some crew members began moving slowly, dismantling the lighting set, unplugging cables, and turning off the fog machine. Outside the room, the prop masters had already started packing items to be returned to storage for other TV shows that might not be as important to them as this one.
Joey remained seated.
Charlie walked over slowly, standing beside his chair. He didn't say anything. Just placed his hand briefly on Joey's shoulder. Not pressing. Not pulling. Just being present.
"Thanks, kid," he murmured finally. "We'll talk again. But maybe not as Kevin and Charlie."
Joey nodded slowly. Wordless.
A few minutes later, Sheira handed him his jacket and said, "They're waiting on the rooftop later this afternoon at sunset. A small party, they said. Crew party."
Joey sighed. Then stood up.
His steps were slow as he left the interrogation room. When the wooden door closed behind him, for some reason it sounded like a cell door slamming shut.
*
The weather was starting to warm. Spring crept slowly between the old buildings, carrying the scent of earth, dust, and faint hope. Today wasn't a regular shoot day—it was the final day.
Since their main studio in Queens didn't have a rooftop, the small final party was moved to a rented unit at Brooklyn Fire Proof in Chelsea—an indie studio complex in East Williamsburg. Its rooftop was hastily decorated for the small party. String lights were hung haphazardly, snacks were on a folding table, and a bottle of cheap champagne stood beside canned beer. Soft music played from Chelsea's old boombox, tunes from Alanis Morissette and Radiohead slipping into the evening breeze.
Amid the pile of Manhattan skyscrapers visible in the distance, golden-orange light reflected off the glass windows. The sun slowly descended beyond the horizon, creating a pseudo-silhouette in the busy city sky. Its last rays peeked through gaps between antennas, cranes, and flat rooftops not yet fully dark. For a moment, the rooftop they stood on felt like the warm, safe edge of the world.
Joey arrived a bit late. His hair was still slightly damp, a pale green sweater hanging over his shoulders. He gave a faint smile upon seeing the small gathering: Leonhard leaning back in a folding chair while lighting a cigarette, Alice busy unwrapping cookies from a vegan store near the studio, and Charlie holding an old Polaroid camera covered in sticker scribbles.
Near the stairway entrance, Sheira—his personal assistant—stood with her arms crossed, a light blue shirt layered under a thin black jacket. Her face was neutral, but her eyes were watchful. Since the Jacob case, Sheira had become more than just a logistics manager. She was Joey's silent alarm—if something approached too quickly.
"Finally, our star shows up," Chelsea said, offering a plastic cup of soda.
Joey just nodded. "I heard there's free pizza."
A small laugh echoed. For a moment, nothing felt heavy. No Jacob case dragging his name, no media, no criminal network rumors. Just a small film crew, celebrating something they had completed together.
In a corner chair, David, the sound designer, was twisting a beer bottle cap while joking with Marsha, the costume coordinator. Cam, their chatterbox lighting grip, was taking a selfie with Alice and Chelsea, all three wearing old shooting caps with the main cast's signatures on the inside.
Sheira walked slowly toward Joey. She handed him a small cardboard box containing unused revised scripts.
"Do you want to keep these or just toss them?" she asked briefly.
Joey looked at the box. Then nodded. "Keep. Maybe I'll want to reread them later... when I'm no longer Kevin."
Sheira didn't answer but placed the box into her black tote bag and sat quietly on the edge of the rooftop. She knew when to stop being professional and simply be a witness.
Photo after photo was taken. Some blurry. Some with half-drunken laughter. Alice hugged Joey from behind in one shot, her cheek against his back. In another photo, Leonhard and Charlie posed back-to-back like a cowboy duel, complete with finger-gun gestures.
Amid the moment, Charlie raised his plastic cup and declared, "To A Genius Criminal season two! And to the crazy team that got us through snow, fake blood, and four sleepless nights!"
"Three nights," Cam corrected from a distance.
"Four for me. I slept standing up during episode fourteen," Chelsea retorted.
Laughter erupted again. For a moment, the world felt like their own.
The party wasn't glamorous. But it was warm. Like something made from the leftover energy of people who had saved each other through long nights.
While others laughed and talked, Leonhard stood slightly apart, alone near the rooftop fence. He gazed toward the city, a nearly finished cigarette in his hand, his sharp eyes reflecting the orange glow of streetlights.
Joey watched him from a distance for a few moments. Then, as if drawn by something unexplained, he walked over.
No greeting. No small talk. Joey just stood beside him, close enough to see faint marks on Leonhard's knuckles, far enough for the wind to still pass between them.
"They say the air is cleaner in late February," Leonhard finally said flatly.
Joey didn't answer immediately. His gaze remained fixed on the blinking city in the distance.
"They also say the perpetrator who returns to the scene of the crime is the one who most wants to be understood," Joey whispered softly, almost like a murmur to himself.
Silence.
Leonhard's cigarette went out, but he hadn't discarded it. His eyes turned slightly, looking at Joey.
"Sometimes it's not about wanting to be understood," he said, his voice hoarse and nearly breaking at the end of the sentence. "But wanting to know if anyone else... saw."
Joey didn't turn. But the gleam in his eyes grew darker. Not because of the night. But because something within him knew—and chose not to speak.
The two stood in silence. Like two shadows from different worlds meeting in a gray zone.
And before they returned to the party, Leonhard said softly, almost inaudibly, "You're a brilliant actor, Joey."
Joey smiled faintly. "You're not." There was a pause between his words, his voice more serious as he said, "After this party ends, wait for me at the nearest cafe."
Then Joey left first, leaving Leonhard alone with the dead cigarette and a secret left behind like a fingerprint on a gun handle.
The camera kept changing hands. As the sun began to set, the sky turned a pale orange. Charlie finally sat beside Joey, who was lazily unwrapping a chocolate cupcake.
"So..." Charlie raised an eyebrow. "After this? Heading to the big screen?"
Joey turned slowly. His gaze didn't answer directly. He just chewed slowly, his eyes watching a small hanging lamp swaying gently in the breeze.
"There are a few offers," he said finally. "Film festivals. One from France. Another... a big studio, but too clean. Too far from here."
Charlie squinted. "And you prefer the smell of burnt cables and sleep-deprived crews?"
Joey chuckled softly. "Maybe. I like small projects like this. Where people know my name for my roles, not the tabloids."
Charlie gave a brief smile. But his smile wasn't just about amusement—there was a gentle worry in it. "But you also know you can't hide behind indie cameras forever."
Joey looked at his hands. His fingers held the cupcake wrapper as if holding a fragile answer. "I'm not hiding. I'm just not ready to be seen completely."
A pause. Steam rose from Charlie's soda glass like a timeline that couldn't be rewound.
Then Charlie patted Joey's shoulder, like a father who knew not all wounds could be spoken of.
"Ready or not, you've been seen," he said. "But you can still choose who you let get close."
Joey didn't answer. But the gleam in his eyes softened. In his silence, there was an admission: that he might finally believe—even just a little—that there was a way to be seen without losing himself.
Night fell further. People started leaving one by one. Alice kissed Joey's cheek before leaving, Leonhard only nodded and gave a two-fingered salute—always sparing with words.
Charlie was the last to leave. He glanced back before closing the rooftop door.
"You know where to find me if you need another home," he said. "One that doesn't ask about the past."
Joey just smiled, small and barely visible. But enough to be a thank you.
As the rooftop lights were turned off and all sounds faded, Joey stood alone, gazing at the city from above.
Brooklyn in the distance looked like a giant stage. Bright. Noisy. Beautiful and threatening at the same time.
The night wind touched his face. Not piercing, but enough to make the ends of his blond hair sway slowly.
From the edge of the rooftop, Joey peered down—past the shadows of the iron stairs and safety railing, his eyes catching the figure standing on the sidewalk across the street.
Leonhard.
The man wasn't in a hurry to leave. He stood with his head slightly tilted up, looking toward Joey as if waiting for a cue that was never truly given.
Their eyes met. Not for long, but long enough to convey something words couldn't carry.
Then Leonhard moved. Without a gesture. Without turning. He slipped both hands into his jacket pockets and started walking north, toward a small cafe on the corner Joey had mentioned half-jokingly.
Joey didn't follow immediately.
But he knew he would catch up. Not out of obligation. But because there was a conversation that could only happen when all masks had been left behind, when Kevin had been buried, and all that remained were two strangers who knew too much about each other—and too little about themselves.
Under the Manhattan night sky, their footsteps would cross paths again. And the night wasn't entirely over yet.
*
The clock showed 1:03 AM when a metallic silver-gray Chevrolet Caprice sedan stopped silently on the outskirts of the Brooklyn docks—the air biting cold, the sea black beneath a starless sky. The car door opened, and out stepped a man around his mid-thirties, rather handsome with a strong jaw, a defined nose, and thin lips that never smiled except in public.
The streetlights only partially worked, leaving some of the sidewalk in shadow. A three-story brick building at the end of the street stood like an old tomb in disguise—there lay the headquarters of El Cuervo Social Club, the hidden heart of Santiago Morales's power in New York.
Footsteps sounded softly over gravel and puddles from last night's rain. It was Leonhard Stahl walking toward the steel door without hesitation, without looking back. The hem of his black trench coat was damp, and in his dark brown eyes, there was no reflection of light—only an uncompromising resolve.
Two men, Valdez and Nico Bravetti, stood guard outside and gave a signal. No words, just the door slowly opening.
Inside, the smell of cigar smoke, cheap women's perfume, and old blood filled the air.
Second floor.
Santiago Morales was lounging on a maroon leather sofa, legs stretched out, one hand holding a crystal glass of tequila, the other wrapped around the waist of a Latina woman with long hair and clothes too thin for Brooklyn's weather. Their laughter echoed softly, faintly, before the door opened.
Upon seeing Leonhard's tall silhouette, Santiago raised an eyebrow, then motioned for the woman to leave without looking back. She stood up, walked out while buttoning her blouse, her eyes briefly glancing at the stranger who didn't cast a single look her way.
Santiago stood up slowly, smiling broadly. His signature smile—full of charm but with more fangs.
"Detective Voss, nice to see you came." He stepped forward, glass still in hand. "Or more accurately... Assassin Stahl."
Leonhard didn't answer. No need.
Two of Morales's men who had been guarding earlier, now Leonhard's subordinates, appeared from a side door. Nico closed the back door, while Valdez touched his waist—ensuring his pistol was in place.
Santiago was undisturbed. Until the next sentence came out, flat and cold, "The one who killed Jacob that night... Joey Carter already knows the perpetrator is me."
Silence. Like a held breath alongside a yet-unnamed rage.
Valdez and Nico glanced at each other quickly—and in a fraction of a second, the smile on Santiago's face vanished like smoke blown away by the wind.
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Limerence has ended and is published on Wattpad in Indonesian. If you want to read it faster, feel free to visit Wattpad with the same penname, oishielmo.
The prequel to Limerence, Kalopsia, is only published on KaryaKarsa also in Indonesian.