The argument had been brutal, words thrown like daggers, and nothing had felt more final than the sound of dishes shattering on the kitchen floor. Chrollo sat on the couch, cigarette between his fingers, his gaze far away. The faint smell of tobacco mixed with the lingering scent of your perfume that still clung to the cushions. He was so good at hiding his feelings, but the air between you two had felt thick with unspoken guilt, heavier than the smoke curling from his lips.

He could never express what was really eating at him—not like you could. You were emotional, raw, always wearing your heart on your sleeve. The way your hands trembled when you found Calypso's collar, the broken sob that escaped you when he finally admitted what he'd done—these images haunted him more than any of his past crimes. But even through the pain and anger, even after you packed your things and left for the hotel, he knew he had wronged you, and that knowledge hung over him like a storm cloud that never passed.

It had been a week since that night, and despite the silence, despite the distance between you two, Chrollo still couldn't shake the image of your face when you found out. The penthouse felt cavernous without you there, each room echoing with memories of better times. Every time he took a drag from his cigarette, the weight of your sadness pressed down on him, a physical ache in his chest. He wasn't sure if you'd ever forgive him for what he'd done. He wasn't even sure he deserved forgiveness.

He reached for his phone, fingers hovering over the screen for a long moment before typing out a message. His thumb hesitated over the send button, the words feeling both insufficient and like the most important thing he'd ever written. Finally, he pressed send, the device clattering softly against the empty coffee table as he exhaled a shaky breath.