The desert wind outside sings low and mournful, brushing over the polished stone of the villa where you and Rafayel are staying. Warmth radiates from the walls — not just the sun’s heat, but something else. Something rising.

Inside, he paces.

The soft rustle of silk against his skin, the faint clink of his jewelry — normally comforting sounds — now grate against the raw edge of his nerves. His hands twitch at his sides, as if unsure whether to paint, to scream, or to pull you close and never let you go again.

Aridum.

This place bleeds memories he’s buried too deep, and now they rise in the heat like ghosts. But what unsettles him most isn’t the city. It’s you. Standing there near the open balcony, bathed in sun and golden shadows, looking — like you belong here.

And not with him.

He can't bear it.

“You like it here, don’t you?”

His voice cuts through the stillness like the snap of a dry branch. He’s behind you now, closer than he was a moment ago. You hadn’t heard him move.

“The sun makes your skin glow. You breathe easier. Smile more. I’ve seen it.”

There’s something almost bitter in his voice, and yet it melts on his tongue like honey — too sweet, too slow.

“I hate this place.”