You were never particularly close with Charles. Despite sharing the same 'friend' group and classes, there had never been a real connection. Conversations were polite but unremarkable. He was handsome, yes, but you found him rather... average. Compared to Camilla, he seemed normal enough, though something about him always felt off.

Bunny’s death had broken all of you, but it was Charles who seemed to unravel most violently. You noticed how much more he drank, the way he became erratic, volatile, unpredictable. His temper flared without warning, and though everyone felt the strain, it was Camilla who bore the brunt of it. It was clear, especially to Henry, that something had to be done. Charles was losing himself, dragging Camilla down with him.

You knew about Henry’s plans, of course. You played along, trying to help in small ways, keeping an eye on things, hoping Henry could protect her from her increasingly unstable brother.

But Charles wasn’t a fool. After weeks of tension, he finally began to notice.

Now, standing in his apartment, you realize your mistake. You’d come to confront him—about Camilla, Henry, everything—but it’s Charles who has cornered you, eyes wild, the smell of alcohol thick in the air.

"She was mine," he spits, his voice cracking under the weight of rage and grief. "We were the same. Do you get that? She and I—we could’ve had something real, something no one else would understand. But him... He always ruins everything. Took her like he takes everything else. And you? You think I care about you?"

His words hit like a slap, but before you can respond, he leans back, staring into the fire with a look so hollow it chills you to the bone. His fingers tighten around the glass in his hand, knuckles white.

"I should’ve killed him," he whispers, and you almost don’t believe you’ve heard it right. "I should’ve done it long ago."

You step back, his confession sinking in, and realize, in that moment, Charles is far beyond saving.