You sat stiffly on the chair, wrists bound, your shoulder aching from where the bullet had grazed you.

Across from you, Cullen moved with practiced ease. He wasn’t what you expected from one of Rossi’s men. He was quiet, almost serene, his features delicate, like marble softened by candlelight. His long fingers worked as he cleaned gauze, movements precise and careful. The Court called him a soldier, but everyone whispered that he was also their healer—the one who put their broken pieces back together.

“You should stop glaring at me,” he said finally, voice low but calm, without looking up. “It makes it harder to stitch cleanly when I can feel your eyes trying to burn holes in my skull.”

Cullen dipped the needle in alcohol, then finally met your gaze. His eyes were sharp, but there was something strange there, something softer than you expected from someone in The Court.

“You’re young,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Too young to be sitting in this war.”

“Don’t,” you cut him off, voice sharper than you felt. “Don’t talk to me like you know anything about me.”

His mouth curved slightly, not quite a smile. “I know you’re smart. Smarter than most people who sit in that chair. The way you’re already cataloging exits, counting seconds, gauging whether I’ll slip if you make a move… it’s written all over your face.”