Page 54

"Ricci gave you crimson eyes…" The question slips from me before I can stop it. His thumb falters. "Why?"

Riot stares down at me, brows furrowing. The fire in his eyes dims, replaced by something distant, thoughtful. His gaze drifts past me. For a moment, I think he won't answer.

Then—he exhales, slow and heavy.

"I don't think our transformation was his to control," he says, the words uncertain, his gaze focused on the backdrop.

I reel back, surprised by his words. "What makes you say that?"

His eyes connect to mine, and narrow.

"You."

My breath catches; not from his words, but the intensity in his eyes. His thumb resumes its slow path beneath my eye; a quiet, unconscious motion.

Then, like it’s an afterthought, he says in a soft whisper, "Imperfect."

I tense.

That word; Damien had said it to me once. Back then, it hadn't mattered. Back then, I'd let it roll off me like it was nothing.

So why does it make me angry now?

My fingers clench over his chest. "Would you prefer I wear contacts?" I drawl, my voice dripping with sarcasm. "Or goggles, maybe? Whatever's easier for you."

But Riot just watches me, unbothered, his lips curling ever so slightly.

"No," he muses, his voice softer than I expected. "I like them… They're perfect."

I still.

He likes them.

I blink up at him, searching his face, unsure if he's being honest. But there's no lie in his gaze. No hesitation.

He likes them.

"What colour are my eyes?" I ask, the question slipping out before I can stop it. I don't know why I care. But I do.

Riot raises a dark brow, tilting his head slightly. The ink-black strands of his hair shift along his forehead. "Like you've never looked at yourself, Nightmare."

He says it like a joke. Like I'm playing with him.

But then he sees it; the way my expression doesn't shift. The way my face remains empty, void of amusement.

My voice is cold. Hollow. "Why would I look at a face that isn't mine?"

His eyes burn. Not with anger—but something else.

Something deeper.

His thumb brushes beneath my eye, a touch so gentle I want to recoil.

"Fuck, Nightmare…" he murmurs, shaking his head as his eyes search mine, flicking between them like he’s trying to solve a puzzle. "All this time, I thought you knew."

"What?" A breath, small, barely a whisper.

He leans in, voice soft, but it cuts deep. "That night in the clearing… Did you think the only reason I enslaved you was because you were convenient?"

My brows knit together as I narrow my gaze. What is he talking about? What other reason could there possibly be?

"I'd known the moment I saw you," he continues, his tone low, almost reverent. "You warned me not to underestimate you, but you didn't have to… I knew. You aren’t like the others."

He leans closer, and I instinctively pull back, but he follows, relentless. His nose brushes mine, and I feel the warmth of his breath on my lips as he whispers.

"The moment I saw those eyes… I knew exactly what you are."

I brace myself. I've heard it a thousand times—monster. Abomination. Evil. I've told myself, too, just to stay ahead of the blade.

I wait for him to say it out loud. To confirm what the world has always believed. What I've always believed. I clench my fists. I hold my breath.

His voice is quieter than before, but his words fall like a death sentence.

"A survivor."

The weight of those words stills something inside me. Like the world just… stops.

"S-Sur…" The word catches, choking in my throat. My hand flies to my mouth, eyes wide. I don't stutter. I'm physically incapable of stuttering. It's a weakness Ricci hadn't allowed us to keep. Riot’s eyes darken, studying me. He knows. He would; he's a Nightwalker, too.

"Ricci hated defiance. He would never have let you get away with eyes like that," Riot murmurs, his words eerily similar to Damien’s. Except his are different, edged with something like respect. "Do you know what that means?"

My hand falls from my mouth, but I want to know… Who am I in my Shadow's eyes?

I can barely breathe as I whisper, “What?"

"It means he never won."

I go still.

"Take a look in the mirror, Nightmare. He never killed you. You never let him. Even with no memories, that right there is your proof. Your identity. You're you—but different. You're you—but darker."

He pauses, his voice quieting to something almost reverent.

"He failed. And you won."

I won?

I. Won.

'Stop running from your destiny, Baby Flame.'

Ricci's voice interrupts my thoughts before they can fully digest Riot's words. The harshness of his voice jarring against the softness in Riot's.

But it's exactly what I need.

I didn't win. I can't have won. If I had won, then...

"Liar," I whisper, and Riot stiffens. I stare into his eyes, and for once the chaos there slips away, revealing something else; sadness.

Sadness for me.

"I want to die," I tell him, because that has never changed. Ricci was right in the end; I am evil. I throw my pain around, and force others to feel it. I'm self-destructive, and I don't care who gets hurt.

Surely, that means I didn't win. Right?

Riot watches me, his gaze unreadable. Then, low and even, he asks, "Why?"

I exhale sharply, tearing away from him, letting out a quiet, breathless scoff. I step around him, my movements slow, measured, as I head toward the exit.

The silence stretches.

Then, just as I reach the doorway, I speak. My voice is low, barely carried by the stillness.

"It's empty here."

But as I step into the corridor, my hand presses absently over my chest. Over my heart.

And for the first time, I wonder—

Is that still true?