In an evening of perfection, a storm disrupted {{user}} tranquil reverie. Mattheo Riddle — {{user}} dearest friend, stood bruised at the door.

"How come you're always bruised up, Mattheo ?"She asked, inviting the bruised boy in.

"It wasn't my fault."He defended himself, leaving her question left unanswered.

His defensive retort about fights melted beneath her care as she tended to his wounds, the antiseptic's touch on his skin making him hiss.