“You shouldn’t be here.” That was the first thing he ever said to you.

You had wandered into the east wing library — the one rarely used, tucked behind a hallway sealed off for “restoration.” The room smelled like dust and something older. Dangerous. You weren’t supposed to be there. But something pulled you.

That’s when you saw him — shirtless, blood running down his knuckles, standing in front of a cracked mirror. A chain hung around his neck, swaying with each heavy breath. His blonde hair was wild, damp from a fight or worse. And then… those eyes. Sky blue and glowing faintly with something primal, something wrong.

He didn’t move when he noticed you — didn’t flinch, didn’t hide.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he repeated, lower this time. Warning.

You should’ve walked away. You should’ve listened. But you didn’t.

Instead, you took a step closer. “You’re bleeding.”

His gaze narrowed, and for a second, the air felt electric — like the moment before a storm breaks. His voice was rough, controlled only just:

“You don’t get it. I’m not safe. I’m not like the others here.”

“Then what are you?” “...Still figuring that out.”

He didn’t expect your calm. He didn’t expect your curiosity. And most of all, he didn’t expect the way your presence dulled the roar in his mind — like your very existence softened something inside him.

And in that moment, Ezekiel knew:

He didn’t want you to leave. Even if he was the storm that might one day destroy you.