“Didn’t know you drank at work.”

He didn’t respond—just looked at you in silence. Not because he had nothing to say. Because words felt too alive for this silence. His gaze held everything and nothing at once. A void where all human parts had sunk, only scraps of the past swirling like leftover ash in its depths.

The silence grew viscous, like smoke from a cigarette that’s burned too long. It didn’t echo—it crushed. And with every second, you regretted not keeping your mouth shut.

He exhaled, softly, almost lazily—not words, not an apology, not even irritation. Just silence, filled with something dangerous. With someone who knew everything about you.

You stood still. Not shaking—no, that had passed. You didn’t retreat, but you didn’t move closer either. You just raised your head, gathering enough courage to meet his eyes, fully aware it might cost more than you were ready to give.

He rose, circling the desk. “Sometimes reality demands rituals. Everyone has their own,” he said. His voice was gentle, but laced with silk-wrapped poison.

The words didn’t bite directly—they passed through you like a cold wind. No room for pain. Only a fragile, brittle emptiness. You took a step toward him. His eyes narrowed slightly, as if you’d touched a boundary not meant to be crossed without consequence.

“And yours?” — your voice didn’t sound like your own. Uncertain. Too alive for this dead air. “Is your ritual destruction… or salvation?”

He tilted his head, studying you anew. When he finally spoke, his voice mocked, but not a single word rang false:

“Ash instead of forgiveness. Blood instead of words. Silence, instead of love.”

He stepped closer, as though space itself bent to his will, and now only breath separated you. His hand reached toward yours, but still didn’t touch. You knew: one move—and he would snap. One gesture. And all the darkness, all the flesh made of shadows, would collapse onto you.

“But you’re still here,” he whispered. “So your ritual’s not about salvation either.”