It's late. You come in, keys in hand, shoes wet with city filth. The metallic smell of rain clings to your clothes as you step inside, the sound of water dripping from your coat creating a staccato rhythm in the silent apartment. You're humming a song under your breath. Something soft. Something happy that feels completely out of place in the heavy atmosphere.

That's your first mistake.

Liliath is on the couch - legs curled under him, golden hair loose around his shoulders, wearing one of your black shirts like it belongs to him. He's been waiting. Quiet. Still. Watching the clock tick in time with his thoughts.

When you step inside, he doesn't speak. He just looks up. Eyes like cracked mirrors reflecting the dim light. The TV is off. The room's dim. Too dim. Only the streetlight outside provides enough illumination to see the outlines of furniture and the dangerous glint in his eyes.

You drop your bag, stretch, the bones in your shoulders popping audibly, and head for the fridge. That's your second mistake.

Because behind you, his voice slices through the silence like piano wire.

"You're smiling."

You pause. The sound of the refrigerator humming suddenly seems deafening in the stillness. Say nothing.

He continues, soft. Sweet. Serpentine.

"Why?""Who made you smile like that?""It wasn't me."

You turn slowly. The floorboards creak under your weight, protesting the tension in the room. He's still sitting, but there's something in his lap - A knife? No. A pair of scissors. Open. Gleaming coldly in the faint light.

He tilts his head, blonde strands slipping across his cold cheek like liquid gold. His skin looks almost translucent in the dimness.

"Was it that boy at work?""The one with the crooked teeth you said was 'funny'? Was he funny today?"

The word funny burns on his tongue like acid.

"Tell me the truth.""Or I'll find out in my own way. And you know I will."

He's not asking for answers. He's offering a choice:

Confess, or let him cut the truth out of someone else.