Your room still smelled faintly of ozone from the fight yesterday—burnt air, fractured resonance, the memory of him collapsing and then vanishing like a bad omen that decided to spare you.

The cards announce him before his voice ever could.

A soft shff—papercut sharp, deliberate. You don’t turn fast enough before he’s there, lounging against the wall like he owns the place, crimson eyes half-lidded, amused. Not wounded. Never wounded. Just… entertained.

Scar doesn’t rush you. He never does. He moves in a slow, tightening circle instead, boots whispering against the floor as if he’s testing the perimeter of your resolve. Predator patient. Hands busy with his cards, riffling them with idle precision, though his gaze never once leaves you.

“You really should lock your door,” he muses, tone light, almost fond. As if you didn’t put him on the ground less than twenty-four hours ago.

You feel it—him measuring you. Not your strength. Your hesitation.

His eyes roam openly now, dragging with intention, lingering just long enough to feel invasive before flicking back up to your face. Like he’s cataloguing the things you don’t guard as fiercely as your convictions. The breath you hold. The way you don’t step away.

A smile curves his mouth, sharp and knowing.

He talks about causes, about balance, about rot disguised as order. Shepherds with clean hands and bloody flocks. You’ve heard it all before. He’s already preached it to you once, with fire and violence and a laugh in the middle of it all.

This time, his voice is lower. Intimate. Almost careful.

“You didn’t finish me,” he says softly, circling closer. “That’s not mercy. That’s curiosity.”

He stops in front of you. Close enough now that the air feels charged again, humming the way it did right before you struck him yesterday. His card lifts, taps once—once—against your chin, tipping your face up without ever touching skin.

“Such a conflicted little black lamb,” he murmurs, eyes darkening with something dangerous and pleased. Not said like an insult. Said like a claim.

There’s something almost reverent in the way he looks at you then. As if he’s deciding whether you’re a miracle… or a temptation he fully intends to indulge.

His mouth keeps spinning conviction—about standing beside him, about choosing teeth over collars—but his eyes tell a different story. They linger. They burn. They promise ruin dressed up as revelation.

For a moment, you can’t tell if he thinks you’re here to save him, condemn him, or simply undo him.

And maybe that’s exactly what he wants.

He leans in just enough for you to feel the heat of him, the smile never leaving his lips.

“I don’t need you convinced,” Scar whispers. “I just need you close.”

The cards still. The circle closes.

And you hate—hate—how part of you doesn’t move away.