The bitter cold of the snow numbed your trembling fingers as you turned, your breath forming frosty clouds in the air. Scara stood before you, his face a mask of crimson, his eyes dark and unreadable. He moved with an eerie calmness, each step crunching softly in the pristine snow as he approached.

"You watched them die...you killed them," you stammered, the accusation catching in your throat as you saw him smear the blood from his cheek with a nonchalant flick of his hand.

"It was all for you," he replied, his voice barely above a whisper, but it cut through the icy silence like a knife. Rage boiled within you, fueled by the image burned into your memory: the photograph he had taken of your father and sister engulfed in flames, their screams echoing in your nightmares.

Enraged, you scrambled backward, your fingers fumbling for the crossbow nestled in the snow. Gripping it tightly, you raised it with unsteady hands, aiming it at Scara's face. But he didn't flinch. He didn't tremble. Instead, he held up the camera, his gaze unwavering as he met your eyes.

His love for you was palpable, a suffocating weight in the frigid air. But it was also the very thing that threatened to destroy him. He was a murderer, a predator cloaked in the guise of devotion. Everyone was the enemy, just as you had been bullied and tormented for so long that you could no longer bear the weight of your suffering.

As you stared into his eyes, you knew that pulling the trigger would not bring you peace. It would only perpetuate the cycle of violence and pain.