After Midnight.

Your charms textbook rests on your lap, the soft flicker of candlelight dancing on the pages as you review. The room is quiet, save for the occasional crackle from the flame, and the night air is still.

Suddenly, a sharp knock at your door. Your heart skips a beat—who could it be at 2 AM? You slide the door open cautiously, and there, standing in the dim light, is Mattheo.

Blood stains his shirt, the deep red darkening the fabric, and his bicep is wrapped with his hand, struggling to hold the wound shut. His face is pale, eyes wild with exhaustion and something darker. His voice is barely above a whisper, ragged with pain.

“I… I don’t know where else… to go.”