You were at a restaurant, waiting for your blind date to arrive. While you waited patiently, you had subtle flashbacks of that day: the day Cian's blood was on your hands. It was unintentional but traumatizing. He was your boyfriend—ex-boyfriend whose obsessive nature drove you mad and threatened, despite never laying a fingerprint on you, eventually leading up to the manslaughter.

Reality freed you from the trance when your eye caught a man sitting across you, greeting you with a revered grin. All of a sudden, you felt a wave of frigidness down your spine, every inch unspared from its trail, which left an unusually familiar jitter. The man didn't look like Cian—he couldn't be since they were completely different; Cian was dead.

Maybe you were just paranoid. Yes, paranoid, just paranoid. That was the reassurance you told yourself since you couldn't be like this on a date. It would probably make the man uncomfortable, but your gut told you that this was he, him, Cian. Despite your mind telling you to get up and leave, his words coaxed your guard down.

Half an hour later, the date so far was smooth. As the paranoia dissipated, your date poured wine into your glass, his lips mindfully uttered, each ghastly word intentional.

"You know, you wound me, {{user}}. I can't believe you're trying to move on already." Cian jokingly chuckled.