And then it was all quiet again. Maybe it was just me. Maybe it was the way he had pulled back—had shut himself off again just when he was about to say something real.
I should've let it go. I should've taken the silence for what it was.
But I couldn't.
My voice was quieter now, careful. "Who's Nihil?"
Something in his posture changed. It wasn't obvious—just the smallest shift in the way his fingers curled, the way his shoulders went too still.
I saw it.
And I knew.
"I heard you say that name," I pressed. "That night when you—" I hesitated, then forced myself to say it. "When you were bleeding out."
Silence.
"You mumbled it. Like it meant something. Like it was the only thing you could think about."
Still nothing.
But I wasn't done.
"You tried to stop me from going near him, too." My breath was uneven now. "Even when you were barely conscious, even when you could barely breathe, you—"
I swallowed hard. "You still tried."
His jaw tightened.
I took a step closer. "And he's the one who gave me the vial. The one who said—" My voice caught.
"If you die now, it wouldn't be fun."
There.
That was the moment.
The moment his mask cracked—just barely, just for a second.
The moment his breath came too sharp.
The moment his fingers twitched, like something had just dug under his skin.
I had him.
I could feel it.
And yet—
His expression didn't change.
His voice was quiet, even. "You shouldn't say that name."
I exhaled sharply. "You keep telling me what I shouldn't do. What I shouldn't ask. But you never actually give me an answer."
A pause.
And then—soft, controlled, unreadable—
"Nihil is no one."
Lie.
I took another step. "He's the one who gave me the vial."
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
I swallowed. "He's the one who wanted you alive."
Still nothing.
"You should hate him for that." My voice was quieter now. "But you don't."
A beat.
A slow, heavy exhale.
And then—
"Nihil is a problem."
It wasn't the answer I wanted.
But it wasn't a lie, either.
I let that sink in. Let the weight of those words settle in my chest.
He wasn't denying it anymore.
He wasn't pretending he didn't know.
He was just—holding back.
Like there was too much to say.
Like if he started, he wouldn't be able to stop.
I wanted to push.
But then—
He turned his back to me.
Like the conversation was over.
Like he had just erased it from existence.
Like Nihil was a name that didn't belong here.
But I knew better now.
And something in my gut told me—
Nihil was the key to everything.
I watched his back, waiting.
For what, I didn't know. An explanation? A warning? Something real?
But I got nothing.
Just silence.
Just the slow, controlled rise and fall of his shoulders—like he was forcing himself to breathe evenly, like the weight of this conversation was something he had already decided to bury.
Like this was over.
Fine.
I exhaled, my body still weak, my mind still too full.
"Right," I muttered. "Of course."
No reaction.
I pushed the blanket off my legs, feeling the lingering ache in my muscles as I stood up. My knees wobbled, but I caught myself.
He didn't move to help.
He just stood there, facing the window, pretending I wasn't still in the room.
I swallowed. My throat was dry. "I should go."
A slow second passed.
Then another.
And finally—so quiet I almost didn't hear it—
"You should."
That was it.
No argument. No warning. No attempt to stop me.
So I left.
And as I stepped into the hallway, as the door clicked shut behind me, I realized something.
He hadn't asked me not to tell anyone.
Because he already knew.
I wouldn't.