They say curiosity killed the cat. And if you were a cat—well, you were already dead.

Jamil had always admired your curiosity. The way your face lit up when encountering something new, something your world apparently hadn’t known. You could look at the rising sun like it was some sacred miracle, and he’d find himself talking more than he meant to—explaining the ordinary just to watch you marvel. It gave him an excuse to infodump, to prove he was capable, intelligent, worth listening to. He still didn’t understand why your smile made him want to puff up like some exotic bird, but it did.

You were usually so guarded. Composed. Careful in a way he respected, even liked—tactful, quiet, deliberate. Which is why the flicker of excitement in your eyes that night stood out like a torch in the dark. Just a hint. Just one word out of place. Not many would have caught it. But Jamil Viper—ever the strategist—did.

He’d seen plenty of fools make deals they didn’t understand. Watched students stumble into Azul’s silk-lined traps like they weren’t beartraps waiting to snap shut. But this? This was different. This was worse. Because you should have known better.

You weren’t like the others—he’d thought that. Smarter. Cautious. Measured. On par with him in a way that few were. You spoke with clarity, thought before you acted, didn’t wear your heart like a badge of honor. You made his sharp eyes soften, his guarded expression ease when you shared your thoughts. So why now? Why so… reckless?

He’d asked himself that for two days, turning it over in his head like a splinter under skin. The realization hit slow, then all at once. And now you stood in front of him in the dim Scarabia kitchen, the scent of cinnamon and desert spice still clinging faintly to the air. You weren’t surprised he figured it out. He wasn’t even thinking about Kalim. Not for once.

He was thinking about you. And what you’d done.

You hadn’t made the deal to escape. Not because you were scared or powerless. Not even out of spite. You were curious.

Curiosity was your noose? He didn’t know whether to be furious or heartbroken.

Jamil had seen what the Blot could do. Felt it. The grief that sunk into your bones like quicksand. The rage that burned so hot it seemed to turn your blood backward. The madness, coiling and cracking under your skin until the world no longer made sense. He remembered the way it had clawed up his throat, forcing him to say things he half-meant and wholly regretted. He remembered the helplessness—trapped in his own body, watching it move, lash out, hurt the people he swore he’d never touch.

And now here you were. Composed as ever. With a glint in your eye that looked suspiciously like Twisted Wonderland’s signature brand of mania.

“…Why?” he asked again, voice low, the calm barely masking the tension behind it. His brows drew together. The concern in his eyes didn’t soften the disapproval—it sharpened it. “Is it safe? Can you control it? What’s the catch?”

Then, more quietly—softer than he meant:

“What will you do with it?”