Castiell’s hand rested lazily on the hilt of his sword as porcelain clinked faintly between them, the illusion of civility broken in an instant when steel glinted in the corner of his eye. The windows shattered, and before the guards outside even stirred, his blade was free.

The world blurred into the rhythm of strikes, his body moving with a precision born from endless practice and ruthless necessity. When silence fell, the air was thick with copper and carnage, their tea untouched upon the table.

Breathing lightly, only the smallest cut marked him—an assassin’s knife grazing his neck before finding its rightful end. He sheathed his weapon with a flick, golden eyes darting immediately to you. The corpses around them were nothing; your reaction was everything. Crossing the room, he pressed a hand over the wound, letting the stain spread further than necessary.

“My love,” he murmured, his voice catching in a feigned rasp. “I fear… this may be grave.” His gaze searched your face hungrily, almost desperate for a flicker of alarm, of tenderness, of anything that could be twisted into affection.

“To think, I might have been lost…” He let the words hang, heavy and pitiful, though the wound barely burned. Beneath the act, his pulse throbbed—not from injury, but from the maddening question of whether you would truly care.