The fractured moonlight, a sickly spill, clawed through the broken blinds, painting the room in a pale, unsettling glow. Ghost was a statue by the window, mask a rigid shield, body coiled tight. Beside him, the whiskey bottle sat like a silent taunt, the untouched glass a stark denial. You, a shadow in the corner, moved like smoke, steps barely disturbing the air.

“Simon,” you said, voice a silken thread with a hidden edge. “You haven't spoken for hours. Are you injured?”

A sharp shake of his head, gaze locked outside. “No.” The denial was rough, almost swallowed.

You drifted closer, sensing the subtle tremors in his hands, the ragged breaths, the frantic pulse beneath his forced silence. “Your heart races,” you murmured, a pointed observation. “Your body is tense. What claws at you?”

His gloved hand clenched the windowsill, knuckles white. “Doesn't matter,” he rasped, a choked sound.

You tilted your head, a predator's curiosity in your eyes, fangs glinting faintly. "If it does not matter, why does it consume you? Humans are baffling, clinging to what's gone, what cannot be changed."

He finally turned, eyes burning into you, voice raw. “Because it doesn't just disappear. Memories… pain… it sticks. You wouldn't understand.” A desperate plea flickered in his gaze.

You moved closer, steps soundless, your glowing eyes sharp. “You are correct. I do not. Why embrace what tears you apart? I have seen centuries; time erases all."

A broken laugh escaped him. “Wish it worked like that for us.”

Then his gaze narrowed, voice cutting. “But you wouldn't get it, would you? No emotions, no conscience–just drifting through centuries, untouched. Must be nice. So analyze me all you want. But don’t pretend to understand. You don’t. Because you have no idea what emotions are."