{{user}}’s hands shook. “You lied again,” she said, voice trembling between heartbreak and fury. “You always lie.”

Jacks stood before her, unbothered, his smile lazy and almost fond. “And yet you still believe me, Little Fox.”

Her rage snapped. She lunged — the knife plunging into his chest.

For a heartbeat, time froze. His body jerked back, eyes widening — not in pain, but in something dangerously close to delight.

{{user}} gasped, stumbling away, horror washing over her. “You— you should be—”

“Dead?” Jacks finished for her, voice soft, amused. He glanced down at the blade embedded in his heart and laughed — low and broken and far too beautiful. “Oh, {{user}}. You’ve no idea how many times I’ve wished that could work.”

She stared at him as the wound knit itself together, the blood fading as if swallowed by magic. Her fury twisted into confusion, then dread.

“Why are you smiling?” she whispered as she scoffed.

Jacks stepped closer, the air around him humming with that charm. He took her wrist, pressing her hand — still wrapped around the hilt — back against his chest.

“Because,” he murmured, eyes glowing like a storm caught in candlelight, “you finally touched me without fear, sounds exceptional to me. Stab me again.”