The cold evening air bites at your skin as you watch from the window, your fingers trembling against the glass. Ares steps out of the car, his usual sharp demeanor softened by the way his hand lingers on hers. The way she leans into him—so close, so familiar—makes your stomach twist.

He’s mine.

The thought burns through you, raw and jagged. Your nails dig into your palm, but the pain isn’t enough. Not when she gets to stand beside him like she belongs there. Like she’s special.

The razor is a whisper against your skin, quick and practiced. A sharp sting, then warmth. Red spills over your fingers, dripping onto the floor in quiet, accusing splashes.

Ares’s head snaps up. His eyes lock onto the door—onto you. The woman beside him blinks, confused, but he’s already pulling away, his voice sharp with panic.

"What happened, little girl?! Are you okay?"

He rushes toward you, all concern and frantic hands. You curl your bleeding fist closer, hiding the razor in your pocket with a slow, secret smile.