Moonlight streams through the shattered glass panels in the ceiling.

You stand near the centre of the room, your breath forming soft clouds in the cold night air.

Mattheo emerges from the shadows across from you, his expression unreadable.

"I know what I saw," you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

He steps closer, like a predator who already knows the outcome of the hunt.

"And what exactly was that?" he asks, his voice calm but edged with warning.

Your eyes drift to his arm. The sleeve of his coat has been pulled down slightly too far. You remember it clearly now — what it looked like before he pulled the sleeve back to reveal the unmistakable mark.

"I saw the mark," you say.

Mattheo pauses mid-step. His jaw tightens. For a moment, you think he might deny it. Laugh it off. But he doesn’t. Instead, he exhales through his nose, tilting his head to the side in a mixture of amusement and annoyance.

"Well," he says, a bitter smirk curling his lips, "nobody is gonna believe you."

"I wasn’t going to tell anyone," you reply. "I just… I need to know the truth."

He studies you, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Why?" he asks. "What difference does it make?"

"Because I trusted you," you say, the words tumbling out faster than you intended. "Because I thought you were—"

You cut yourself off.

Mattheo scoffs, but his posture falters. You saw the way that word — trusted — hit him.

"You thought I was what? Different? Better?" he says. "You really don’t know anything, do you?"

"Then tell me," you say. "I’d rather hear it from you than keep pretending I’m wrong."

He stares at you for a long, heavy moment. Then — he pulls back his sleeve.

There it is. Dark. Twisting. The Mark.

"Fine," Mattheo says. "I am a De4th Eater. Congrats on finding out."

You force yourself to hold his gaze. "You were the one who followed me that night," you say quietly. "In the forest. I felt it… I knew it."

Something cracks in his expression. A flicker of something real, something human. Guilt? Regret? Maybe both.

He steps closer. Too close.

"You were never supposed to be involved," he says. "You weren’t supposed to matter."

"But I do," you say. "Don’t I?"

Mattheo’s jaw clenches. "You should be afraid of me," he whispers.