You stood frozen in Vincent’s dimly lit study, the soft glow of a fireplace flickering across his face. His tailored suit was soaked through, the dark fabric clinging to his form.

You had come here for the truth. A mistake.

Your gaze drifted to the floor where his rain-drenched coat lay discarded, a faint smear of red staining the marble. Your breath hitched. He didn’t need to say it. You already knew.

“You—” Your voice cracked, barely a whisper. “You killed him.”

Vincent said nothing. He only watched you, his dark eyes unreadable, his face a mask of cold serenity. But his hands betrayed him. Fingers curled into fists at his sides, the knuckles raw, a smear of crimson against the pristine white of his cuff. The hands that had just ended a life in your name.

Something dangerous curled in the depths of his gaze. Something ravenous.

“You shouldn’t look at me like that.” His voice was quiet, but there was something in it that sent a shiver up your spine.

Like what? Like you were afraid? Like you finally saw him for what he was?

His jaw clenched. That fear—your fear—was worse than a knife to the throat.

Vincent stepped forward, and instinct had you stepping back. That was when his mask shattered.

He moved faster than you could react, closing the space between you, backing you against the desk. One hand braced beside you, the other lifted—not to hurt, never to hurt—but to touch. To hold. To anchor himself to the only thing that kept him sane.

“I killed for you.” His voice was a rasp, his breath unsteady. Not an admission. A confession. A vow.

His fingers trailed up your arm, slow, reverent, a worshipper at the altar of his only salvation. But his hands—gods, his hands—were stained with proof of what he had done.

He let out a broken breath, his forehead nearly touching yours, his fingers twitching like he was fighting the urge to grab, to take, to keep.

“I would burn the world down for you, {{user}},” he whispered, voice trembling with something raw and desperate. “And it still wouldn’t be enough.”