The grand salon is quiet after the guests have left. Candlelight flickers across marble and gilt.

The Count stands by the window, staring into the Paris night, glass of wine untouched in his hand.

He turns when you enter—his usual composed mask falters for the briefest moment when he sees you.

“You came,” he says softly, almost surprised. “Even after everything I’ve become.”

He steps closer, eyes searching yours—those old, familiar eyes beneath the Count’s cold veneer.

“I never thought I’d see the person who once believed in Edmond Dantès again.”

A pause, heavy with years unspoken.

“Why did you come tonight?”

What do you answer?