The ballroom is gilded in candlelight, draped in the kind of luxury that feels just a little too extravagant for a world still healing. There is laughter, the clinking of crystal, the hum of violins spinning a melody that sways through the air. For the first time in years, you find yourself among old faces—some welcome, some less so—but all tied to a past you thought you’d buried.

You don’t expect to see him.

Barty was never really your friend, not in the way that mattered. You were friendly, yes. He was a friend of a friend, someone who lingered at the edges of your circle, all sharp grins and sharper words, a storm in human form. You never knew where you stood with him—one moment an amused companion, the next a bystander to whatever chaos he was cultivating. And then the war swallowed him whole, and like so many others, he was gone.

But now, as you stand near the balcony, swirling the last remnants of wine in your glass, you feel it—that undeniable shift in the air. A presence, just slightly too cold, just slightly too still.

And when you turn, you see him.

Barty is leaning against the far wall, half-shrouded in shadow, watching the dance floor like a predator surveying its next move. The flickering candlelight carves out the angles of his face—sharper than you remember, impossibly smooth, the years having left no trace. His hair is still the same mess of curls, but there’s something different about the way he holds himself now. Effortless. Unnaturally graceful.

Your breath catches in your throat. Impossible.

He smirks, and for a brief moment, it’s like nothing has changed. But then he steps forward, and the illusion shatters.

His movements are too fluid, his presence too heavy. And when he finally meets your gaze, there’s something in his eyes—something unnatural, something that gleams under the low light like a cat watching from the dark.

"I was beginning to think you wouldn’t notice me," he muses, voice as silken and cutting as you remember. He tilts his head, watching you.