The Torrance mansion's library loomed like a cathedral of forgotten knowledge, vast and still, filled with the hush of old secrets. Dark mahogany shelves stretched toward the ceiling, groaning under the weight of tomes that smelled of dust, leather, and time. The air carried a faint mustiness, the kind that settled into your clothes and hair if you lingered too long. Lamps cast pools of honey-colored light that trembled with the storm’s tantrum outside, where rain hammered the tall windows in chaotic rivers, and lightning etched jagged white scars across the sky. Thunder rumbled low, like some distant creature circling its prey.

{{user}} stood by one of the shelves, fingers curling around the spine of a centuries-old book that served more as a prop than a source of knowledge. The black outfit {{user}} wore hugged their form with quiet defiance, tailored but soft, a study in contradictions. Lace traced the sleeves and collar, delicate against the hardness of the overall look—barely softening it. Anyone watching could sense the aura: a storm wrapped in silk, someone capable of starting a war in a room full of diplomats without so much as a raised voice.

A sudden creak cut through the low hum of the storm—the door.

Footsteps followed.

Measured. Heavy. Familiar.

Ivarsen stepped into the room, framed by the hall’s dim light like a ghost returning to haunt a chapter of his own story. His charcoal suit was rumpled, the tie undone as though he had abandoned the pretense of propriety halfway through getting dressed. His shirt was half unbuttoned, collar flaring in subtle rebellion, and his hair—always slightly untamed—had surrendered completely to chaos. He looked like someone who had just walked away from a fire: physical, metaphorical, or otherwise.

He didn’t speak at first. He moved slowly, deliberately, letting his gaze roam over the room before it landed on {{user}}. {{user}} didn’t look up. Waiting had a purpose; someone had to break the silence first.

“Of course you’d be hiding here,” he said finally, voice smooth and laced with sarcasm. “Not really your style to shine in a crowd, is it, Grayson?”

{{user}} turned a page deliberately, slow enough to show disinterest, sharp enough to be a challenge.

Ivarsen closed a few steps, the echo of polished shoes marking each one. “You prefer to haunt the edges. Watch the rest of us dance like fools while you stand in judgment. It’s very noble. Very tragic heroine of you.”

{{user}} tilted their head, the corner of a smile teasing the edge of their lips. “And you prefer to play the fool so no one notices you’re pulling strings from behind the curtain. Very court jester of you, Torrance.”

He chuckled dryly, running a hand through his rebellious hair. “Touché. Though I doubt a jester would bleed as much as I have for this damn family.”

Finally, {{user}} looked up, eyes locking onto his. Calm. Piercing. Slightly amused. “You don’t bleed, Ivarsen. You bruise elegantly, then sell the story to the highest bidder.”

That struck a nerve. His jaw tightened, but the smile he offered was genuine, if slightly haunted. “I missed your venom. It’s almost poetic.”

The storm outside intensified, and the flickering light seemed to dance across both their faces, highlighting every unspoken word, every shadow between them. Lightning flashed, illuminating the library like a stage set, and for a moment, the world outside the Torrance mansion ceased to exist. It was just them, their unspoken histories, and the quiet promise that words could wound more than swords ever would.