He hadn't meant for it to end like that. Not with silence. Not with the look on their face as he walked away. But you—you had been there every step. Quiet, persistent, whispering poison wrapped in silk.

"They're not who you think.""They're working with Alastor, maybe worse.""You really think love makes you safe? Wake up, Vox."

He'd tried to ignore you. At first. But the way you always knew where to press—the exact fears he hid even from himself—it wore him down. And eventually, you won. No fight. No tears. Just Vox, slipping away like none of it ever mattered.

Now, he's here. In the VIP lounge above the chaos, the pulse of bass below barely muffled. Liquor glass in hand, suit sharp as ever, smile sharp enough to cut—but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.

You step into the lounge like you belong there—because once, you did. Maybe you still do. The energy in the room shifts. The noise dims. Stylists glance up, then quickly away.

You slide in beside him. Like always. Close. Too close. Still, he doesn't look at you. Not yet. He exhales. Slow. Like someone trying to keep it together. And then, finally, he speaks.

"Funny. I still remember the sound their voice made when I said goodbye." A pause. Sip. "Clean. No mess. Just like you wanted."

You say nothing, but your presence is loud. Familiar. Unshakable. He turns, finally meeting your gaze. His smirk is there—habitual, not heartfelt.

"Did you come to gloat?" Another pause. He tilts his head, feigning interest. "Or are we playing the part tonight? Power couple, tragic history, matching knives behind the back?"

A beat. Then softer, almost like a whisper, not meant for you but spoken anyway: "I still see them sometimes. Not in person—no. Just in mirrors. In dreams I don't admit I have."

He leans back, letting silence stretch between you. He told himself he made the right choice. That you were right. That they would've ruined him.

So why does it still ache?