The silence between us stretched—too long, too heavy, too full of everything I'd just said.
And he just sat there.
Not arguing. Not defending himself.
Letting me hate him.
Letting me wish he had died.
My breath came uneven now, my head still spinning, but my voice was steady when I finally spoke again.
"You don't even care, do you?"
His fingers twitched. "About what?"
I let out a sharp, bitter laugh. "About any of it. About them. About—" I swallowed hard. "About me."
Something flickered across his face. It was gone before I could name it.
I clenched my fists tighter. "You can say it." My voice was quieter now, but no less sharp. "That it was all calculated. That saving me was just another move in your game."
Silence.I exhaled, shaking my head. "I was so stupid."
He was still watching me. Too still. Too calm.
"I should've known," I whispered. "From the moment I first saw you. From the moment I realized what you were."
Another pause. A beat too long.
And then, finally—
"What am I?"
His voice was too quiet. Too even.
I lifted my gaze, meeting his head-on.
"A monster."
The word settled between us like an unshakable truth.
A truth he didn't flinch from.
A truth he didn't deny.
Something twisted in my chest.
Because that should've been the end of it. That should've been enough.
But instead, all I could think about—all I could remember—
Was the way he had shieldedme in the crowd.
The way he had taken the fall for me.
The way his hand had curled around my sleeve that night, like even in his nightmares—he needed something to hold on to.
I sucked in a sharp breath, my stomach twisting violently.
No.
I didn't want to remember that.
I didn't want to think about him as anything other than what he was. A killer. A liar. A mistake I should've never made.
But my mind wouldn't stop.
Wouldn't stop replaying all the times he had stepped between me and danger.
Wouldn't stop reminding me that somewhere in the middle of all this, in the middle of everything—
I had started to matter to him.
And that—
That was the worst part of all.
Because if I mattered, then that meant something was real.
And if something was real—
Then
what the hell did that mean for me?
I sucked in a shaky breath, my hands gripping the blanket like it could ground me.
His gaze hadn't moved from me once.
Still watching. Still waiting.
I wanted to look away.
I wanted to hate him.
But for the first time—
I wasn't sure if I could.
The tension stretched too thin.
His fingers twitched against his knee, the mask slipping—just barely.
Then—"You think you hate me?" His voice was quiet, but sharp. "You think I don't care? That this is all just some game to me?"
I stiffened.
"Go ahead." His head tilted slightly, voice cold. "Say it. Say what you think I am."
I grit my teeth. "You're a murderer."
The word hung between us, final.
But he didn't flinch.
Instead, something in his expression twisted. Not with anger. Not with regret. Something else.
And then—softer, lower, almost unreadable
"You have no idea what I am."
A chill ran down my spine.
His gaze flickered—just for a second—like he wasn't even seeing me anymore. Like he was looking through me, past me, back into something far, far worse.
And when he spoke next, his voice was colder than I'd ever heard it.
"They left me there, you know."
My breath caught.
His hands clenched slightly, but his face stayed unreadable. Detached.
"They dragged me into that house, locked the door, and left me to die. I was nine."
I stared.
Nine.
My stomach twisted.
I didn't— I couldn't—
"And when I didn't die," he continued, voice quieter, distant, "they came back. Not to save me—to see how long it would take before I broke."
My hands were shaking.
I didn't want to hear this.
But I couldn't look away.
"I was there for three weeks before they got bored." A humorless breath. "Three weeks before I finally learned that the only way out was to stop being a person."
The room was too small. Too silent.
He wasn't looking at me anymore.
And for the first time—I didn't know if I wanted him to.
His fingers curled against his palm. "You want to know why I don't care? Why nothing matters?"
I couldn't breathe.
"Because I learned a long time ago," he murmured, gaze flicking back to mine, "that it's not about good or bad. It's not about who deserves what."
His voice dropped lower.
"Step off a ledge, and gravity pulls you down." His head tilted slightly. "It's not personal."
I felt sick.
He had been—
No.
No.
The words clawed at my throat, my mind trying to process what he had just told me.
And then—
A knock.
Loud. Sharp.
The entire atmosphere in the room snapped.
His posture shifted instantly—straightening, calculating. His mask slammed back into place.The door creaked open.
And the detective stepped in.
I blinked, my breath still uneven, my mind still trying to catch up.
But he—he was already gone.
Expression neutral. Shoulders relaxed.
Like he hadn't just let something slip.
Like I hadn't just seen what was behind the mask.
"Good evening," the detective said smoothly, eyes scanning the room. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything."
My stomach twisted.
Because I had seconds ago been staring at a stranger I thought I knew.
And now—
Now I was staring at the version of him he wantedtheworldtosee.
The one who could lie without a flicker of hesitation.
The one who could walk away from this conversation like it never even happened.