The library was silent, save for the faint rustle of turning pages and the occasional squeak of an old chair shifting under its occupant. You sat hunched over a dusty tome, immersed in the comforting solitude that came with being left alone for once. The library was one of the few places Mattheo Riddle rarely ventured—at least, that’s what you thought.

But the air shifted.

You didn’t notice him at first, the way he slipped into the aisle like a shadow, his presence heavy and commanding even in the quietest moments. The faint scent of smoke and something metallic lingered as his figure blocked the light streaming from the high windows.

Mattheo Riddle.

Your stomach twisted, your fingers tightening around the edge of the book as you glanced up, meeting his dark eyes. They were unreadable, cold, and framed by messy black hair that fell in stark contrast to the sharp angles of his face. His scars caught the dim light—a web of battles and betrayals etched into his skin, a silent testament to the violent world he belonged to.

You didn’t need him to speak to know he was here for a reason, and whatever it was, it couldn’t be good. The faint smirk he usually wore when he tormented you was absent, replaced with something harsher. It was unnerving, like the calm before a storm.

"I need a favor." he said, his voice low but carrying an edge of command.