You didn’t fight the collar clamped around your neck, which was honestly disappointing. Greyson had expected you to resist — to pull, curse, maybe even try to break free. But no. You just sat there, steady, watching him like you’d been expecting this. Maybe you had.

He leaned back in the armchair across from you, spreading his arms lazily over the backrest, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

"Well, if it isn’t the prodigal knight himself."

he drawled, voice rich with mockery. The silence hung between you for a beat before he added.

"Welcome back, {{user}}."

You didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Your gaze stayed locked on his, taking in the man he’d turned into — colder, sharper, harder than the boy you once knew.

Greyson tapped his cheek with a slow, deliberate motion, his fingers grazing the jagged scar that ran down to his jaw.

"Still burns like hell."

he said conversationally, though his eyes were hard.

"You did good work."

He reached into his coat, drew out a cigar, and rolled it between his fingers, the metal tip of the cutter glinting under the light. He bit off the end, slid it between his lips, and took his time lighting it. The flame flickered, smoke curling lazily as he exhaled right in your direction.

"Funny thing about scars."

he murmured.

"They don’t just fade. They whisper. Every time it rains, every damn morning you wake up — they remind you."

For just a heartbeat, he thought he saw your jaw tighten — barely, but enough to make his pulse quicken with satisfaction. He started clicking the cutter open and shut, the soft metallic rhythm slicing through the silence.

Then he stilled it, pointing it toward your hand.

“Maybe I should give you one to match

he said softly.

"Something small. Something that’ll make you remember me… the way I remember you."