A long pause.
"Thank you," Cassian said, his voice empty.
Alistair chuckled, the sound soft—almost pleased. But then, he paused.
His nose twitched slightly.
And then he paused.
Sniffed the air.
"I smell… something," he mused.
Ezra froze.
"I hope you haven't been keeping rats, Cassian," Alistair continued, amused. "You know how I feel about filth."
Ezra's breath caught as polished shoes clicked toward the bed. Closer. Closer.
Alistair crouched.
Ezra could see the edge of his face now—impossibly handsome, but wrong. Masklike. His expression was too calm, his eyes too sharp. The kind of man who smiled while driving a knife into your gut, then complimented your posture.
A gloved hand dragged across the floorboard. He studied the speck of dust on his fingertip with disdain.
"Cleanliness," he murmured, "is a reflection of discipline."
Ezra's breath hitched.
Alistair's polished shoes clicked against the wooden floor as he took a slow step back. He sniffed once, lazily, before dragging a gloved finger along the surface of the desk.
Ezra clenched his jaw, forcing himself to remain perfectly still beneath the bed. His heartbeat pounded like war drums against his ribs.
Alistair exhaled through his nose, almost in disappointment.
"What have I taught you, Cassian?" His voice was deceptively gentle. "Have you forgotten my lessons?"
Cassian remained silent.
Then—pain.
A sharp, deliberate press of nails against his back.
Cassian's body stiffened, but he didn't move.
Alistair pressed harder, his gloved fingers digging in, nails cutting just deep enough to break skin. Blood welled up, sliding down in thin rivulets before dripping onto the polished floor.
Cassian exhaled quietly.
Ezra's stomach twisted.
The footsteps shifted—turning, moving, until Alistair was standing right in front of him.
Ezra's breath turned shallow.
From his position beneath the bed, he could see the sharp gleam of Alistair's shoes just inches away.
One step closer, and it was over.