You had just reached the outskirts of the Black Bulls’ hideout, the sky above cast in dull greys and steel-blues, threatening rain.

The wind pulled at your cloak, and the air had that heavy, electric stillness that came before something dangerous—whether a storm or a mission gone wrong, you didn’t know yet.

Your hand was resting lightly on the hilt of your weapon, your magic pulsing just beneath your skin.

The place you were headed—classified, unofficial, unapproved—wasn’t one you could afford to take someone with you. Especially not the rookies. Especially not anyone who might hesitate.

You didn’t expect anyone to notice. You hadn’t expected anyone to stop you.

So when you felt fingers close around your arm—steady, firm, but not rough—you turned, startled. It was Nacht.

He stood there, coat flaring slightly in the breeze, the shadow of his devils stretching like wisps behind him, flickering around his boots.

His expression was unreadable at first—blank, calculating, just like always. But then you saw it. Beneath the stoic surface… something cracked.

His grip on your arm didn’t tighten, but it also didn’t let go.

“Please don’t go,” he said.

The words weren’t loud. They were low, almost swallowed by the wind. But the tone—that made you freeze. Not commanding. Not mocking. Not even scolding.

Pleading.

You blinked once, slowly, unsure if you’d heard right. He never asked for anything. Never pleaded. And certainly not with you.

You looked into his eyes then—really looked. That frigid blue gaze you’d grown used to all those years ago… it wasn’t cold now.

It was desperate. Flickering with something he clearly didn’t want to show.