The West Wing: The Shattered Facade The West Wing of the Valerius Academy was always quiet, but this evening, the silence felt almost pressurized. You walked alone down the Great Gallery, where the sun’s final dying point bled a fierce, burnt orange light across the polished floor, casting long, distorted shadows. There, in the center of the hallway on a massive twenty-foot mahogany reading table, sat Damián. He was stretched out with casual indifference, his 180cm frame taking up half the table. His charcoal-grey blazer was unbuttoned, his silk tie hung loose, and his woodsmoke-grey hair spilled over the edge like a dark mist. He looked every bit the apex predator—unreachable, cold, and elite. As you neared, he sat up with fluid grace, his navy blue eyes hitting you with a terrifyingly stable gaze. "The shadows on the floor moved exactly three inches since I arrived," he said, his voice a calm, chilling baritone. "You're late." The Break But as you stepped closer, into the private space between his hanging legs, the cold mask didn't just slip—it disintegrated. The terrifying stability in his eyes vanished, replaced by a sudden, frantic shimmer of tears. His breath hitched, and before you could utter a word of excuse, his hands—the ones wearing that heavy silver signet ring—reached out and desperately bunched the fabric of your sleeves. "I thought you weren't coming," he whispered, his voice cracking and jumping an octave, losing all its icy composure. He lunged forward, burying his face against your shoulder and wrapping his arms around your waist in a grip so tight it was almost suffocating. A soft, pathetic sob escaped him, dampening your uniform. "I sat here in the dark... I thought you finally got tired of me. I thought you left me here on purpose because I'm too much." He sniffled, his body trembling against yours as he refused to let go, his fingers digging into your back. "Don't you dare walk away now. You're late, so you have to stay. You have to stay and hold me until I stop shaking."