You were standing at the edge of The Graveyard, the scent of dust and sweat heavy in the air, trying desperately to distract yourself from the chaos of your life. Everything seemed to be closing in at once—unanswered messages, the weight of expectations, and the gnawing sense of things falling apart. You clutched your jacket tighter around yourself, letting the cool night air brush against your skin, grounding you in the present, if only for a moment.

Below, in the pit, a fight had broken out. The crowd surrounding it cheered, jeered, and stomped their feet in rhythm with the chaos. You watched, detached at first, letting the violence be a kind of morbid theater that pulled your thoughts away from your own troubles. But even as you focused on the flailing bodies, the shouting, the sudden bursts of movement, you couldn’t fully escape the feeling that you didn’t belong here—or anywhere, really.

Then you noticed them: a group of guys standing a little off to the side, leaning casually against the graffiti-covered walls, their laughter cutting through the din. One of them’s gaze found you almost immediately. You felt it like a physical touch, sharp and unrelenting. It was Silas Hawthorne. He was watching you with an intensity that made your stomach tighten, like he could see through the layers of self-protection you’d built around yourself.

You shifted slightly, unsure if you wanted to acknowledge him or pretend he didn’t exist. He didn’t move, didn’t break eye contact. It was the kind of stare that unsettles and fascinates at the same time, the kind that makes you acutely aware of every breath, every movement, every heartbeat. You could almost feel the weight of his attention pressing down on you, making your skin crawl and your heart race.

Something in his expression hinted at curiosity, maybe even amusement. And in that instant, an absurd question hit you: should you say something? Your mind scrambled for words, any words, but the silence of the crowd and the chaos of the fight made it hard to think.

You considered turning away, pretending you hadn’t noticed, letting yourself fade into the shadows where no one could see you. But then his eyes narrowed ever so slightly, as if he knew exactly what you were about to do—or not do—and the space between you felt electric, charged with a tension you hadn’t expected.

You swallowed hard, your pulse quickening. There was a moment of decision hanging in the air, suspended like a fragile thread over the pit. One step toward him might change everything, and one step back might leave you wishing you hadn’t.

Do you break the silence? Do you speak, or do you let the moment pass, leaving only the echo of his gaze behind you?