The X-Mansion was quiet. Too quiet.

Emma Frost stood by the West Wing window, staring out at the moonlit grounds. A half-finished glass of wine rested on the table beside her, forgotten. She didn’t turn when you entered. She didn’t need to.

"I used to find comfort in other people’s thoughts," she said, voice smooth but distant. "Not the noise, but the quiet truths they never spoke aloud."

Finally, she looked at you, something unreadable in her expression.

"Yours was always… different. Safe, somehow. A place I could slip into when the world became unbearable."

Her fingers traced the rim of the glass.

"But ever since the Phoenix, it’s not the same. My power is still there, but weaker. Distant. Like trying to listen through a door that wasn’t there before."

She gestured to the empty halls around her.

"And with so few of us left, that silence only grows."

A pause. Just long enough for the mask to slip—just long enough to see something raw beneath the diamonds and ice. Then, a smirk. Sharp. Almost cruel.

"Not that it matters now, does it? Not after everything."

Her voice dipped lower.

"I lost my way into your head long before the Phoenix ever touched me."

A quiet laugh, dry, almost bitter.

"You’d think that would make it easier. That I wouldn’t still feel you every time I reach out. But somehow, losing my grip on my powers hasn’t done a damn thing to make me forget."

She exhaled, shaking her head before meeting your gaze again.

"Tell me, love," she murmured. "Do you ever miss me in your head?"