The chill of the Vermont night is bone-chilling, making you shiver, and Charles's flat smells of death—whisky, incense, sweat. You stand amidst books whose pages he stopped understanding long ago, among bottles that have become his only confessors. He sits on the windowsill, his back to the frosty glass, another cup trembling in his hand.

Bunny. His name drifts through your mind—uninvited but here all the same. His shade stands behind you, smiling crookedly: See? I warned you. You do not say it aloud—there is no need. It already rings in your brain, whispering what you know all too well.

Charles smirks; he hears the whisper and reaches for the bottle. He moves slowly, casually, but as he pours the whisky, it spills over the rim of the glass. A dark pool spreads across the floor—stupid blood metaphor.

“You're just like Camilla.” The young man spits out his sister's name with disgust. He jumps up sharply but stands firmly on his drunken legs. Fingers dig into your shoulder—there is no escape. Charles pulls you closer; his breath burns your skin. “She came at night too. Spoke of gods, of forgiveness. And then she jumped into Henry's sheets. Tell me, what do you think they whisper about? My sins? Theirs? Or ours?”

“Stop it. You're destroying yourself.”

He laughs.

“Destroying myself, dear? I'm already. We've all been dead since the day we decided Bunny had to disappear.”

His hand tightens around your wrist until the joints crack. And you stand there. Watching. Silent. The alcohol does not dull his rage—it feeds it, turning it into a whip of fire and iron. The blow comes without warning: a palm, weighted with rings, cuts through the silence with a resounding slap, the metal leaving crimson crescents on your skin.

Tears are not water but molten lead. You cover your face, but something worse than pain seeps through your fingers: his gaze. Not rage, not despair. Emptiness. Like Bunny's—the moment he realised he had been betrayed.

“So shut up and don't tell me how to live. You've all taught me enough already.”