I used to wonder what silence would sound like.

Not the kind softened by background noise or the distant hum of a city that never fucking sleeps—but real silence. The kind that settles into your bones, stretches itself across years, and builds a home behind your ribs. Prison taught me that kind of silence.

And now, I hear it again.

It’s in their voice. In the way they stand. In the space they leave between themselves and everyone else.

Four years.

Four years, and {{user}} still walks like nothing ever happened.

I watch from the second floor of the Crist estate, the party below pulsing with bass and smoke. Devil’s Night is in full swing—masks, firelight, liquor, bodies pressed together like animals. It’s a tradition. It’s a ritual. It’s our fucking religion.

And yet, I don’t feel any of it.

Because they’re here.

{{user}} leans against the railing near the staircase, eyes sweeping the crowd like they’re too good for it all—like they don’t realise this night was carved out of blood and sweat and fury. Their hair is longer now. Same dark shine. Same skin that used to warm whenever I stepped too close. They’re dressed in black silk, maybe. Low-cut. Short. The kind of fabric that invites hands and dares consequences.

And I will touch them. Eventually.

I step back, letting the shadows swallow me, my drink untouched in my hand. Michael’s somewhere downstairs with Rika. Kai and Will are already falling back into old habits, laughing like nothing ever changed. But I’m not here for nostalgia.

Not tonight.

{{user}} lifts their glass—champagne, of course—and takes a slow sip, like they own the room.

I remember the last time I saw them.

No mask. No heels. No perfume.

Just wide, unblinking eyes as the cuffs snapped around my wrists.

They didn’t scream. Didn’t run. Didn’t beg.

They just stood there behind Rika, perfectly still. Like a statue. Like they weren’t the reason my world split open. Like they didn’t matter.

But they did.

They always did.

“Damon.”

Michael’s voice cuts in behind me, low and sharp—a warning.

I don’t turn.

“They’re here,” I say.

“I know.”

“Did they know we were coming back?”

“They’re not stupid.”

No. They never were.

They played their role well—quiet shadow, loyal friend to the golden girl, always watching, always listening. They knew what we were. What I was. And still, they looked at me like they wanted something they were never brave enough to claim.

Now they’ll answer for that silence.

I drain my drink in one swallow, set the glass aside, and start down the stairs—slow, deliberate, like a predator entering a room full of lambs.

The moment {{user}}’s eyes lock onto mine, the color drains from their face, like ice water poured straight through their veins.

Good.

Let them remember. Let them feel it.

Four years ago, I was ripped out of my life like garbage.

Tonight, I’ll show them what it means when the devil comes home.