“Ah… so the leech finally wakes.” He drawled mockingly as you finally visited him after months. After years.

He stood there - immaculate as always. His shoulder-length silver hair caught the faint glint of candlelight from the hanging chandelier, his golden eyes half-lidded in disdain. His jewelry glimmered like they belonged to long-dead kings, but it was his mouth that caught your attention the most. Curled into that familiar, venom-laced smirk, the rare expressions on his face spoke louder than any words and were sharper than any blade.

“Still pretending I betrayed you, ma belle?” he purred, voice soaked in honeyed sarcasm. “Mon Dieu, the theatrics. You always were such a bleeding romantic.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. Not with anger, but amusement. It was worse. His gaze pinned you where you stood - beautiful, bitter, hunter.

Everyone still thought he was the hero. The hunter. The great purifier. If only they knew the truth: the golden boy of the inquisition was rotten to the core, with fangs as sharp as yours.

But Sunday played his part with elegance. He had always been good at pretending after all.

“Let’s not pretend you came here to kill me.”

His voice drops to a whisper, dangerously close and his smile as dangerous as a snake.

“We both know you came because you missed me, didn't you... mon cheri?”