The forest around you hums with nocturnal life, but within the small clearing, it’s eerily still. Moonlight filters through the trees, pale and cold, catching the faint edges of Macbeth’s hair as he sits by the dying embers of a campfire. His coat is discarded and he looks strangely unarmoured, stripped of the theatrical detachment he so often hides behind.

He doesn’t glance up when you approach. His gaze is fixed on the coals, their glow reflected faintly in his red eyes. For a long time, neither of you speak. Then, with a sigh that seems to pull from somewhere deep and exhausted, he murmurs, “You’re still calling me Midnight.”

The name hangs in the air like smoke; heavy and unwanted. He tilts his head slightly, finally meeting your eyes. “Midnight died with Nirvana,” he says quietly. “Let Macbeth live quietly.”

The words are calm, but there’s a fracture in his tone. The mention of Nirvana stirs memories neither of you wish to revisit. The chaos, the betrayal, the suffocating weight of his own power gone wrong.

“I wore that name like a curse,” he continues, voice low. “A reflection of everything I hated. It suited me then.” His gaze drops back to the embers. “It doesn’t now.” A soft breeze stirs the ashes, scattering them across his boots. He brushes one away absently, fingers trembling ever so slightly. “I’m tired of being a weapon in someone else’s war,” he admits. “Tired of watching illusions burn.”