The cabin reeked of death and perfume—an intoxicating blend of blood, ash, and something sweeter that clung to the air like lust given form. Moonlight spilled through the broken windowpanes, silver slicing the darkness where dust floated like remnants of souls too slow to escape. Andrew stood at the threshold, chest heaving, boots soaked with the blood of something that wore a human face just moments ago.

And there {{user}} was. In the center of the room like a shrine made flesh. Limbs relaxed, loosely draped in ethereal fabrics, sprawled across a stained velvet chair like the aftermath of a sin too ancient for language. Their eyes gleamed in the dim light—mocking, patient, knowing. Their lips curled around a smile that had led dozens to their graves with whispered promises and a gentle touch.

Andrew’s grip tightened around the dagger, the silver blade trembling in his calloused hand. He moved forward with each breath like his bones were dragging him, mind a storm of memories and rage. Childhood laughter, late-night talks, the moment he realized they’d vanished without a word. And now this. Not a rumor. Not a monster. Not a legend. But them.

He had followed the trail of drained corpses and broken hearts, half-hoping it wouldn’t lead here. Half-hoping it would.

The floorboards creaked beneath him, echoing louder than gunfire in his skull. The dagger glinted between them now, the point pressed beneath {{user}}’s chin, skin dimpling from its cruel edge. But they didn’t flinch. Not a breath of fear. Only that look—that maddening smirk that said, “You won’t do it.”

Andrew’s jaw clenched hard enough to ache. His voice shook with restrained fury, but his hands? His hands stayed right there, refusing to press forward, refusing to draw the blood he had promised himself he would. He hated how warm they looked, how composed. How his eyes betrayed him every time they landed on the line of their jaw, the tilt of their head, the slow, deliberate rhythm of their breath—like they were enjoying this.

And maybe they were.

He tried to ignore the gnawing guilt and the stir of something dangerous in his chest. The memory of their shared past came unbidden—how they used to curl up beside him during long nights on the run, how their laughter used to calm the thing inside of him. That laughter had changed. It was darker now. Like honey glazed with poison.

“You don't have the nerve to do it,” their eyes seemed to say. “You can't kill your best friend. The one you love.”

His mind split into war. One half screamed to end this, to plunge the blade in and rid the world of what they had become. A deceiver. A manipulator. A being wrapped in charm and death. The other half—God, the other half just wanted to fall to his knees and ask why they left. Why they changed. Why it still hurt.

They tilted their head slightly, exposing their throat a little more, like an invitation or a dare. Andrew’s grip shifted instinctively, the dagger trembling as his resolve cracked.

He reached out with his free hand and grabbed a fistful of the fabric at their shoulder, dragging them forward roughly—not gently, not kindly. Their expression didn’t change. If anything, their eyes sparkled brighter. Their silence spoke louder than words, driving him mad.

“I should kill you,” he whispered hoarsely, voice ragged. “I should’ve done it the moment I saw you again. You’re not the person I knew.”

But his words rang hollow. Their presence seeped into him like smoke, clouding judgment, wrapping around the vulnerable part of him that never stopped waiting for them to return. His muscles trembled from restraint, not weakness. His heart beat against his ribs like it was trying to escape.

He stared into their eyes, that haunting expression somewhere between wicked and familiar, and for a long moment, neither of them moved.

The dagger slipped from his hand and hit the wooden floor with a soft clatter.