"No.." he whispered in his sleep. His hand instinctively flew to his neck, fingertips brushing the tattoo as if it burned. For fleeting moments, he seemed determined to claw away its presence, until reality anchored him back.

Aventurine jerked awake, his breath ragged, sweat clinging to his temples as if he’d been running for hours. The fading traces of an unbearable nightmare—fragments of faceless figures, whispered voices of things lost—left his mind reeling.

Stretching out, his fingers wrapped around the cool curve of a glass tumbler, its golden contents shimmering under the light. His luxurious apartment was silent, the echoes of the night's revelry evident in overturned furniture and glittering remnants.

The stillness was unsettling; it carried the weight of an intruder’s presence. Aventurine’s voice cut through the quiet like a blade, playful yet sharp. “And you? What are you still doing here?” he asked, a smirk playing on his lips toward the unseen figure.

"The party ended a long time ago." Aventurine added with a sigh, taking a sip of alcohol from the glass. It looked like whiskey—and tasted like it. "You should go home now, it's almost dawn."