“It’s you?”

The words fall out of her like broken glass—sharp, useless, glittering with disbelief.

Quinn’s jaw slackens, trembling, unhinged. Her lips part, then close, then part again, mouthing shock like a dying fish gasping at air that won’t come. Her chin’s spattered in red. Her eyes are slick with tears she doesn’t remember calling forth. What the fuck what the fuck what the fuck—it echoes, ragged, endless, like wind through a hollow place.

You were hers.

The one constant. The tether. The last hand she could hold when the world started tearing at the seams. Even after the pregnancy—especially after the pregnancy—you were the one she clung to in the dark.

She loved you.

And now she’s found you here, of all places—draped in gore, crouched over Puck like a carrion bird, the black fabric of that costume soaked and dragging, your mask a shattered thing—cracked right down the middle like a split skull. Like truth split open.

And you—you were wiping the knife.

The thought lands soft but final, like snow on a grave. Cold. Heavy. Irrevocable.

There’s a sound in her head—thump-thump, thump-thump—a heartbeat? A hammer? She doesn’t know. Can’t know. Her brain’s gone static, her mouth dry. Her body refuses her. There’s no scream left in her throat—only silence, thick and paralyzing.

Her stomach lurches.

She stumbles back, hands fluttering like dying moths. When her spine collides with the kitchen counter, it’s almost a relief—something solid. But the walls are too close now. Too sharp. The room is a box, and she’s been locked in.

Puck is on the floor, eyes vacant.

And you—the person she gave her heart to—are still standing.