It’s late, far past curfew, and you find yourself in Mattheo’s room. You’re surprised that he nor Theo is there.

Your eyes fall to the desk by the window, papers scattered messily across the surface, as if torn through in a fit of rage. And there, half-tucked beneath an ink-stained parchment, lies his journal—its pages splayed open like an open wound.

You shouldn’t. But you do. Your fingers brush the spine as you pull it closer. The words hit you like a curse.

I kılled them. I kılled them all. Every single one of them. Not just the men. But the women and the children too.

Your breath catches in your throat. The ink is still wet, letters carved in frantic, furious strokes. It’s not a tale of remorse. It’s a confession of wrath. Of something darker than you ever dared imagine.

They’re like animals and I slaughtęred them like animals.

This isn’t the Mattheo you know—the boy who teased you over morning tea, who brushed your hair from your face with surprising tenderness. This is someone else entirely. A stranger wearing his smile.

The door creaks open behind you. You spin, heart slamming against your ribs.

Mattheo freezes in the doorway. His gaze drops to the journal in your hands, then lifts to meet your eyes. For a heartbeat, he says nothing. Then—

“You weren’t supposed to see that,” he murmurs, voice rough with something like regret. Something like inevitability.

You swallow hard, your eyes burning. “Mattheo… what did you do?”

The look in his eyes is hollow.

“What I had to,” he says simply.

You catch the gleam of a mask in his hand. Tangible proof of everything you feared.

Your heart stutters in your chest. The words in his journal echo inside your mind, thundering alongside your pulse.

You take a deep breath and ask him the one question you fear the answer to.