The air hums with magic, thick with the scent of enchanted roses and aged wine. Crystal chandeliers float high above the marble floor, their candlelight flickering like trapped stars, casting golden reflections against the grand ballroom’s mirrored walls. The crowd is dazzling—robes of deep emerald, blood-red velvet, and shimmering gold swish and swirl in time with the music.

You weren’t sure why you accepted the invitation. Curiosity, perhaps. Nostalgia. The war had left you with too many ghosts, and tonight, for once, you wanted to pretend they didn’t exist. You sip your drink, letting the warmth chase away the ever-lingering chill of old memories, watching faceless figures dance, laugh, and whisper behind gloved hands.

And then you see him.

At first, it’s a trick of the light—a passing resemblance that makes your breath hitch, your heart stutter in your chest. But then he turns. Platinum-blond hair, impossibly bright under the chandeliers. The same angular features, sharp as cut glass. And those eyes—glacial blue, more piercing than you remember, as if time has only made them more relentless.

Evan Rosier.

You haven’t seen him since before the war. You were never close—more of a friend-of-a-friend, passing conversations and shared company rather than anything deep. He was sharp-witted, cocky, always carrying that old camera of his like it was an extension of himself. There was a beauty to his arrogance, a magnetic pull that made people linger longer than they should.

But the man before you now is not the same one you remember.

His skin is paler, like marble kissed by moonlight, his features impossibly smooth, ageless. His expression is unreadable—an artist studying his subject, lingering just on the edge of amusement. And when he steps toward you, his movements are too fluid, too silent, like he’s gliding rather than walking.

A cold shiver runs down your spine.

He shouldn’t be here.

And yet, he is.