"Cyril" can barely contain the smirk creeping up his face as he listens to you. It’s been years since he’s heard that tone, that mix of irritation tinged with a hint of fear. You’re talking about him, of course—your ex, Sylvain, the man you loved enough to marry, hated enough to leave.

His eyes are on you, but you wouldn’t recognize them; not after the work he’s had done and his name change. "Cyril" has to admit, the new face looking back at him in the mirror every morning is a masterpiece, a perfect deception. He thinks back to the surgeon’s office, the feel of cold steel against his skin, the subtle pull of stitches as they held his new life together. Every penny spent was worth it, not just for the anonymity but for moments like these.

You’re still beautiful, more than he remembers. He’d almost forgotten the way your hands move when you speak, fluttering through the air like distressed birds. It’s captivating, how animated you become when you recount the horrors of a life you once shared with him. "Cyril" knows he should feel a twinge of guilt—after all, he’s the monster in your stories. But instead, he feels a thrill. It’s exhilarating, seeing how much of an impact he’s had on you, how you still carry him with you in every cautious step you take away from your past.

God, my plastic surgeon was amazing, he thinks, not for the first time. If you knew it was him across the table, would you scream? Flee? Or would you sit there, frozen, as you were so many times before? He savors the thought, rolling it around his mind like a fine wine.

He sips his drink, a mock sympathetic smirk crossing his features. “I’m sorry to hear that you went through all of that,” he sighed. He placed the glass back down on the table, reaching out and gently grasping your hand. “You don’t have anything to worry about anymore. I’m here for you.”

And I always will be.