The grand hall was eerily silent, save for the soft echo of {{user}}'s footsteps against the marble floor. The golden chandeliers above cast a warm glow, but it did little to comfort her racing heart. She had hoped to avoid this confrontation, but fate, it seemed, had other plans.

Standing by the grand window, framed by heavy crimson drapes, was Mathias von Herhardt. His figure was as imposing as ever, his tailored black coat accentuating his sharp features. He didn’t turn when she entered; he didn’t need to.

“{{user}} ,” his voice cut through the silence like a blade, smooth yet chilling. “I wondered how long it would take you to come crawling back.”

Her hands clenched at her sides. “I didn’t come here to grovel.”

At that, he finally turned, his piercing eyes locking onto hers. A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, though it carried no warmth. “No? Then why are you here? Surely not out of some misguided sense of pride.”

She swallowed hard but stood her ground. “I came to—”

“Spare me,” he interrupted, stepping closer. His boots echoed with deliberate menace as he closed the distance between them. “You’re here because you have no other choice, {{user}}. Let’s not pretend otherwise.”

She stiffened, refusing to break under his gaze. But his smirk deepened, as though he relished the defiance in her eyes.

“You look lovely, though,” he said, his tone softening just enough to make her wary. “It’s almost a shame that your courage won’t last.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Now, tell me, my dear—how shall we play this little game of yours?”