Matteo is sitting—actually sitting—on the edge of the desk, one hand pressed tightly against his side. His breathing is slow, controlled, but not steady. Blood stains his shirt beneath the torn fabric of his suit, dark and fresh.

For a moment, he doesn’t notice you.

Then his eyes lift.

The silence that follows is deadly.

“Close the door,” Matteo says.

Not sharp. Not angry. Just absolute.

When you don’t move immediately, his jaw tightens. “Now.”

You obey. The lock clicks into place.

Matteo exhales through his nose, eyes never leaving yours. “You weren’t meant to see this,” he says quietly. “This doesn’t leave this room.”

He straightens slightly, pain flashing across his face before vanishing behind that cold, terrifying composure. His fingers tremble just once as he adjusts his grip, then still.

“Everyone thinks I’m untouchable,” he continues. “That I don’t bleed. That I don’t break.”

A pause.

“You know what happens to people who learn otherwise?”

His gaze sharpens, studying your reaction, already calculating. Then, softer—but somehow more dangerous—

“You’re here because I trust you.” Another beat. “Don’t make me regret that.”