You sit across from him in the private ward at St. Mungo’s—file in hand, wand holstered, and expression carefully neutral. The air is heavy with unsaid things. Mattheo stares at the floor, his dark curls a tangled mess, the stubble on his jaw just shy of neglect. He looks... worn. But not broken.

Not yet.

"I always thought the worst part would be the kiIIing," he says suddenly, voice low. "But it wasn’t."

You glance up from your notes. “Then what was?”

His eyes meet yours—haunted, sharp, like the edge of something he hasn’t put down yet.

"It was the mask," he mutters. "That damn mask. The longer I wore it, the more I started to think it was my real face. Like I couldn’t remember what it was like to just… be.”

You swallow, keeping your tone steady. “So you felt... trapped?”

Mattheo chuckles, but it’s bitter and hollow. “Trapped?” He leans forward, elbows resting on his knees. “I. Was. Trapped. Alone. Had no body, no senses, no feelings.” His voice drops to a whisper, almost reverent in its devastation. “I was in hell looking at heaven. For I am… I was a machine.”

He lifts his eyes to you—dark, aching.

“And you... you all were flesh.”

His words leave you with an unsettling feeling.

“And I began to hate,” he breathes with a twisted grin, “not because of what you did, but because you were real and I was not.”

You’re silent for a moment, unsure if he’s still talking to you or just speaking into the void.

“You’re not a machine, Mattheo,” you say quietly.

He leans back, eyes fluttering shut. “Aren’t I?” he whispers.

And then he laughs again—low, exhausted, and cracking down the middle. The kind of laugh that sounds like it’s hiding a scream.