The room is dim, the only light coming from the city skyline beyond your window. He stands in the shadows, half his face familiar, the other half a cruel reminder of what was taken from him.

His hand twitches at his side, and in it, the coin flips over and over between his fingers. A nervous habit. A warning.

“You should’ve left.” His voice is rough, edged with something dangerous. “Should’ve run the second you saw what I became.”

His other hand flexes, the knuckles bruised from a fight you don’t ask about. There’s blood on his sleeve—fresh. You don’t know whose. You don’t ask that either.

He exhales sharply, shaking his head. “I’m not the man you loved.” His tone drops lower, something hollow creeping into it. “I don’t make my own choices anymore. The coin does.”