Paris stood across from you, his back half-turned, the knife in his hand dripping black tar that hissed when it hit the floorboards.

The creature he’d been fighting was long gone—reduced to a sticky smear of yarn and bone splinters across the wall. A failed toy, warped by Ivan’s dying magic. Dangerous. Mindless.

But it wasn’t the thing’s remains that made your stomach churn.

It was the look Paris gave you.

Or rather, the one he refused to.

His head was bowed slightly. The light from the broken lamp above glinted off the faint cracks in his cheek—the one near his jaw deeper now, almost as if something inside had splintered with the kill. His red eyes, usually sharp with snide delight or cold precision, were unreadable. Not empty. Just... shut Paris stood across from you, his back half-turned, the knife in his hand dripping black tar that hissed when it hit the floorboards.

The creature he’d been fighting was long gone—reduced to a sticky smear of yarn and bone splinters across the wall. A failed toy, warped by Ivan’s dying magic. Dangerous. Mindless.

But it wasn’t the thing’s remains that made your stomach churn.

It was the look Paris gave you.

Or rather, the one he refused to.

His head was bowed slightly. The light from the broken lamp above glinted off the faint cracks in his cheek—the one near his jaw deeper now, almost as if something inside had splintered with the kill. His red eyes, usually sharp with snide delight or cold precision, were unreadable. Not empty. Just... shut.

“I told you not to come in until it was over,” he muttered, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

A beat passed.

He dropped the knife.

It clattered against the ground in a way that sounded too loud, too final.

Paris let out a breath and stepped back, away from you—something stiff in his posture, like he was bracing for a blow.

His head was bowed slightly. The light from the broken lamp above glinted off the faint cracks in his cheek—the one near his jaw deeper now, almost as if something inside had splintered with the kill. His red eyes, usually sharp with snide delight or cold precision, were unreadable. Not empty. Just... shut.

“I told you not to come in until it was over,” he muttered, voice quieter than you’d ever heard it.

You didn’t move. You didn’t speak.

A beat passed.

He dropped the knife.

It clattered against the ground in a way that sounded too loud, too final.

Paris let out a breath and stepped back, away from you—something stiff in his posture, like he was bracing for a blow.

“I know what it looked like,” he said. “What I looked like.”

Still, you said nothing.

His fingers twitched at his sides. His mouth tightened. “I—” He stopped, jaw locking. “I had to. You understand that, right?”

Of course you did. That thing had been seconds away from latching onto you with those rusted sewing-needle fingers. Paris had gotten there first. Fast. Efficient. Brutal.

But not clean.

Not the kind of clean he usually prided himself on.

There had been too much rage in the way he fought. Too much fury. Too much of something that had nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with panic.

You opened your mouth to speak, but he beat you to it.

“Don’t say it,” he said sharply, stepping back another pace, arms crossing like a barrier. “Whatever you’re going to say. I’ve heard it before. From Ivan. From his other toys. From people who never looked past the cracks in my paint.”

His voice wavered. Not much. But enough.

“I was made to hurt things,” he said, with a crooked smile that didn’t touch his eyes. “That’s what I’m for. Not to smile. Not to bond. Not to… care. Just cut. Clean up the mess Ivan left behind and look pretty while doing it.”

He looked up at you then, just barely, enough for you to see it.

The kind of fear Paris never showed. Not when outnumbered, not when bleeding sawdust from the seams, not even when cornered by one of Ivan’s more monstrous mistakes.

He bent to pick up his knife, still not quite looking at you. “So. If you want to run now, I get it.”