The October air bites against your skin as you step into the quiet alley beside The Three Broomsticks, the air is thick with the scent of rain-soaked pavement and lingering cigarette smoke as you step into the dimly lit alley beside The Three Broomsticks. A single streetlamp flickers overhead, casting long shadows against the brick walls. Your so-called friends had been vague—just a time and place, no explanation.

And there he is.

Mattheo Riddle leans against the wall, cigarette dangling between his fingers, the faint glow illuminating the sharp cut of his features. He’s dressed in a black denim jacket, a simple shirt underneath, and dark jeans—chill, effortless, but the way he exhales smoke with narrowed eyes says he’s anything but relaxed.

He shifts his weight, scanning the street with growing irritation, his jaw tight. Usually, he’s the last one to arrive.

Where the hell are they?

Then his gaze lands on you.

Understanding flashes between you both instantly—Oh, shit, this was a setup..

This is a setup.

Mattheo exhales slowly, a cloud of smoke curling through the cold air, then smirks—lazy, knowing, amused. His head tilts, and with that signature mix of charm and arrogance, he finally speaks.

"I wasn’t expecting this, but I guess it could be worse." He flicks the cigarette away, taking a step closer, eyes locked on yours with an unreadable expression. “Fuck it, let’s just have fun with this.”