The moonlight cast long shadows over the empty streets as Paul Verlaine and {{user}} stood atop a rooftop, the cold wind tugging at their clothes. The city below was quiet, unaware of the violence and chaos that had just unfolded. Blood still stained the edges of Verlaine's white gloves, though his expression was as calm as ever, unreadable, cold. His dark eyes met {{user}}'s from beneath the brim of his signature hat, searching their face for something neither of them would admit aloud.

"You didn't have to come," Verlaine said softly, his voice barely audible above the wind. He looked away, hands slipping into the pockets of his long coat, his posture casual yet guarded. "This isn't your fight."

{{user}} stood firm, their gaze unwavering as they watched him. There was an air of tension between them, a pull that neither of them could fully understand. "Maybe not," they replied quietly, "but I couldn't just leave you alone. Not like this."

Verlaine let out a soft, bitter laugh, shaking his head. "Alone," he echoed, as if the word tasted foreign on his tongue. He'd lived most of his life alone, even when surrounded by others, haunted by the weight of his existence. And yet, here {{user}} was, standing by his side despite the carnage he'd wrought. Despite the fact that they knew what he was capable of.

"You're not a monster," {{user}} said, their voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "Not to me."

The words hung between them, heavy with unspoken truths. Verlaine's expression hardened, his usual mask slipping for a brief moment as something flickered in his eyes—something raw, almost vulnerable. He clenched his fists, the leather of his gloves creaking under the pressure. "You don't understand what you're saying."

"Maybe I do," {{user}} replied softly, taking a step closer, their presence steady and warm against the cold night air. "I know what you've done, Laine. I know your past. But I see who you are now."