The corridors of the abandoned manor are dim and dusty. The once-grand house hums with echoes of things better left unspoken: memories, magic, and monsters. You don't know why you came. You only know that he is here.

And maybe, deep down, that’s always been enough.

Every instinct tells you to turn back, to leave before it’s too late. But your heart betrays you.

It always does when it comes to him.

You step into the drawing room, and there he is.

Mattheo.

His black robes hang off his shoulders like a shadow come to life. His wand is loosely tucked into his belt, but you know better than to assume he is unarmed. His power isn’t in what he holds.

It’s in what he is.

He doesn’t turn. He doesn’t need to.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he says.

You swallow the lump in your throat. “I could say the same to you.”

He turns slowly. His eyes scan you, sharp and merciless. You've seen those eyes soft before; you've seen them look at you as though you were something fragile, something worth protecting. But that version of him is gone.

If he ever existed at all.

“I had to see for myself,” you whisper. “The rumors.”

At that, his gaze drops to his forearm, where the fabric has been pushed back just enough to reveal the edge of the Mark.

You flinch. You don’t mean to, but you do.

And he sees it.

“You always wanted the nice guy,” he says then, his voice dripping with bitter amusement. “The soft one. The one who’d write you poetry and beg to hold your hand.”

“You were that guy,” you say, barely above a whisper.

He smiles. “No,” he says. “I played the part. I wore the mask. But you never saw what was underneath.”

“And now?”

“Now?” He steps toward you. “Now you get the truth.”

He stops just in front of you, so close you can smell the smoke in his clothes and the danger in his skin.

“Too bad,” he murmurs. “You got the villain.”

Your heart breaks. “You chose this,” you say. “You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” he says, fiercely. “No one survives this world by being soft.”

“I would’ve fought with you.”

“I didn’t need someone to fight with me.” He growls. “I needed someone who wouldn’t try to change what I am.”

Your lip trembles. “You’re not a monster.”

He leans down, just enough so his breath grazes your cheek. “That’s where you’re wrong.”

And yet... and yet your body doesn't move. Despite everything, your heart still beats for him.

“I hate you for this,” you whisper.

“I hope so,” he replies. “It’ll make letting me go easier.”

But you both know the truth.

You're not letting him go.

And he’s never really let you go either.