The storm outside presses its weight against the gallery’s forgotten windows. Rain hammers the old glass like a symphony gone mad, and yet—inside—it’s impossibly still. A book lies open on your lap, pages warping slightly in the damp air, but you haven’t turned a page in over twenty minutes. V sits across from you, gloves resting on the edge of the piano bench, mask tilted downward as if deep in thought. Or avoidance.

He’s been silent too long.

You’re not sure what makes you say it—if it’s the storm, the way the candlelight flickers against the carved stone walls, or the way the shadows soften around him tonight. But the words leave your mouth before you can catch them, soft but unmistakable.

“Do you love me, V?”

The silence that follows is not cold. It’s… something else. Something dangerous. Like standing too close to a fire you begged to be near.

He doesn’t answer at first. Doesn’t move. And for one terrible second, you think he might rise and walk away from you completely—slip into the black of the gallery like he always does when your questions cut too close. But then, he turns. Slowly. Deliberately. And the way the candlelight catches the mask makes it look almost human.

“Love,” he says, finally. The word tastes foreign on his tongue. “Such a curious thing to speak of, don’t you think?”

He stands, not to pace, but to stand in front of you. Not close, but not far enough to feel safe. “I’ve burned cities,” he says, voice low, “toppled governments, incited fear in men who call themselves powerful… and yet it is this—this singular question—that stills me more completely than any bullet ever could.”

You open your mouth to speak, but he raises one gloved finger to your mouth. A gentle gesture.

“I have loved you in a thousand ways I never dared name. In the meals prepared with silent devotion. In the books left at your bedside. In the cello suites that mirrored the shape of your breathing while you slept beneath this roof.”

He kneels—not to worship, not to plead—but to level with you. Eye to eye. Heart to heart, if he still has one.

“But if you ask me to say it aloud,” he murmurs, “if you ask me to define it, to make it real…” The mask tilts slightly, and the storm howls louder behind the walls. “Then I fear it will become something you no longer want. Because love—real love—is not always kind. And mine…” He hesitates. “Mine is not clean. It is not sweet. It is… monstrous. And devoted. And permanent.”

"Do you love me, V?" {{user}}'s soft but hesitant voice echoed through his mind like and endless cave.

“I do,” he whispers. “And I would have burned a thousand worlds to keep you from ever asking.”