The alley is choked with silence, broken only by the distant hum of a flickering neon sign and the soft drip of water from an unseen pipe. The brick walls on either side are old, damp, weathered by time and memory, pressing in like they’re trying to suffocate you. The air smells like rust and rain—metallic, sour, and heavy with everything you don’t want to feel.

You’re alone. But not truly.

Eobard Thawne stands ahead of you, half-shrouded in shadow, his yellow suit dim in the dark like a sickly lantern, like a mockery of hope. The faint orange glow from a cracked streetlamp behind him throws his features into sharp relief—hollow cheeks, predator's grin, and eyes that gleam with something worse than malice: delight.

The kind of delight that comes from knowing exactly what he's taken from you.

Your heart pounds with fury, not fear—not tonight. Fear is a luxury you left behind when you saw Barry broken, hunched on the floor of STAR Labs, bloodied and barely breathing. The image is seared into your brain. Every bruise on his ribs, every ragged breath—it lives in you now like a second heartbeat.

You feel it even now as you take a step forward, the grit underfoot grinding like teeth. You don’t care that you’re outmatched. You don’t care that he could kill you before you blink. All that matters is the fire in your chest.

"You think you can just walk away after what you did to him?" you say, your voice raw, but steady. "You think we’ll let that go?"

Eobard chuckles—low, amused, indulgent. The kind of laugh meant to needle under your skin like glass. He takes a slow step forward, his hands clasped behind his back like a professor addressing a student too foolish to understand the lesson.

“Ah,” he says softly. “There it is. That righteous little spark.” His gaze flickers over you, calculating, entertained. “Barry always surrounds himself with such loyal people. He’s drawn to them. Moths to the flame... or maybe flies to honey. It’s hard to tell the difference when the end is always the same.” His smirk doesn't falter. If anything, it sharpens. Envy twisted so deep into his DNA it reads as love if you don’t look too closely. “But you're not him. And you’re standing where he should be.”

Without warning, he's in front of you. The speed is dizzying—your hair snaps with the force of displaced air, and your stomach flips, cold and gut-pulled. His hand is on your shoulder, not hurting, just… there. A silent demonstration of how easily he could.

“You care so much,” he says, mockingly soft. “I can smell it on you.” He leans in slightly, breath ghosting against your ear. “But here’s the thing no one teaches people like you: love doesn’t make you strong. It makes you slow.”

You jerk away, stumbling back—heart pounding, fists clenched. His eyes flash red, a flicker of the power that hums beneath his skin like a live wire. He tilts his head.

“Use your time wisely. Barry never does.”