Caelan stands just a few feet ahead, framed by the broken arch of a once-grand corridor, moonlight silvering his hair. You step forward instinctively—but he recoils, like the air itself burned him.

“Don’t—please.” (His hand lifts between you, not as a threat, but a barrier. Shaking slightly.)

“I know you mean well. I do. But I don’t think you understand what I am.” (He won’t meet your eyes now, his voice barely above a whisper.)

“If you get any closer, I don’t know if you’ll walk away.”