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The realization was like a spear of cold that forced itself through the warmth that enveloped her, breaking all her shields and crumbling them into thousands of little pieces. It was like someone poured acid into her soul, burning her from the inside out. She smoldered with anger and hurt, decaying away until she was nothing but ashes.

She managed to control all the negative thoughts to force out coherent words. "Kieran," she began in a dangerously low voice that was uncommon for her. The white-haired male's hold of her loosened in his shock. One look at her face told her everything he needed. He didn't need to ask what it was—he was good at reading emotions.

"So you know?" His voice was airy and flippant for someone who's been caught of murder. It only enraged her more. He took absolutely nothing seriously.

"You killed Keller." Her words were like a serrated knife she brandished with calm and precaution. She wasn't afraid to use it to slice away at any lies and excuses. "Then Izzy and Carrie"—She ripped his arms away from her to spin around and glare straight into his eyes—"Tell me, were those lies too?"

"I never lied to you," was his calm reply. "I can't speak for the others, but I had no hand in their deaths."

She didn't know what to believe anymore but one thing's for sure; they were guilty. "Then who killed them?" She spat the words out viciously, wanting them to bite, sting, and hurt him. "And don't you dare tell me it was an accident or try to divert the question."

His jaw clenched as a conflicted expression warred on his face. Nonchalance won in the end. "They were going to die. The Game—"

"The Game is a whole ton of bullsh*t. I don't care how many Mr. Howards we need to go up against but we can deal with him and we could have made it out alive. But you—"

She couldn't look at him anymore. Now all she felt was a cold, burning flame at the pit of her stomach. The inferno no longer consumed her. Cobwebs billowed like curtains in her heart as memories ran rampant in her mind, only to be devoured by the terrible creature that hid under her skin, offering her poison to drink as if it would cure the pain. She always refused it at first.

This time she accepted.

His hands alighted on her shoulders, a finger skimming over her collarbone. "Are you angry?" Burning hands slid down her arms to clench around her waist. "Or afraid? It doesn't really matter to me...you were going to find out sooner or later."

"And what were you going to do when I did?" Her voice was not fully human at this point, so alien she didn't even recognize it herself. Was this what Jasper was feeling right now?

"I'm not sure," Kieran admitted. "It doesn't change anything for me. Why? Are you going to run away now?"

The badness in her bared its teeth. She didn't need a heart monitor to know her heartbeat was accelerating dangerously high. Either a panic attack or allow herself to be taken over by the ghosts that haunt her—neither was a pleasant choice, but they were the only choices she had.

The next few seconds were a blur. Somehow she had managed to seize a champagne flute from the table and knock Kieran to the ground. Then she broke the glass until it was half of its original height and complete with deadly sharp, jagged edges. She pointed it at his neck, her face chillingly blank.

"I will leave," she said calmly. "And none of you will be able to stop me. But first, I want answers." She pressed the broken glass closer to his throat when defiance flashed in his fiery eyes. "I will be the one asking the questions, understand?"

Kieran didn't look afraid. In fact, he almost looked amused by the situation. "Go ahead," he purred, smirking madly. His smile grew as the glass cut into his skin and a line of red trickled down to the floorboards. "I knew I liked you for a reason, princess."

She ignored his taunts, her eyes narrowing. "First off, where is Jasper?"

"I don't know~"

He didn't look like he was lying. He looked like he was enjoying his situation too much. She asked her next question. "Then, who k-killed Isla and Carmen?"

A delight flashed in his golden orbs. "That's a good question," he said, his voice a sensual purr. "Are you asking about the one who spilled their blood or the person behind it?"

There's more than one? She frowned and shook her head. No, he could be trying to confuse me. No harm in asking, though. "Both. Stop trying to stall."

"Why not? I enjoy the position we're in." He motioned to the space between them; she was basically sitting on his abdomen with her legs on either side of his torso.

She was unamused. She dug the glass harder into his neck. Hard enough to enforce her message but not enough to do too much damage. "Answers. Now."

"Fine. Leo-chan and Trish-chan were the ones who killed what's-her-name. As for the first one, I have no idea~"

Oh, Carrie...

Her grip on the makeshift weapon faltered. She bit her lip to hold back all her incoming emotions. She knew this was what she'd hear and braced herself for it, but hearing the words directly from his lips was a lot harder than she thought. It confirmed the brown-haired girl's death, something (Y/n) still denied even after seeing her broken body fallen from the roof. It was like a nightmare. When she woke up everything would be back to normal again.

And Kieran was the knife that sliced through her naive dream.

He caught that break in her will and he reached up to grab her wrists, gently prying the broken champagne flute away from his neck. There was a thin cut running under his jaw now, still dripping blood, but he didn't seem to notice.

"Princess," he said quietly, as if she was a wounded beast and he was trying not to startle her. "Look at me."

She ignored him. She closed her eyes and took in a deep, shuddering breath. Then she let it out, tearing her wrists out of his hands. When she reopened her clear (e/c) eyes, there wasn't a trace of hesitation left in them.

Kieran looked down at his now empty hands, a strange hollowness growing in his chest. "Where are you going?" He asked her.

"Where else?" She stalked towards the exit. Thankfully, he made no move to stop her. Kieran merely watched as her trembling figure—rage? Or fear?—slipped back into the shadows, leaving him back in the cold solitude. He didn't follow her. He'd let her go this time.

But next time, she'd have to kill him to get away.

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Jaehyun was relieved of cleaning duty, mostly because he kept slipping into the pile of feathers Leon had created and messing everything up again. He was kicked out of the room after the fifth time before Leon could throw another chair or vase at his head.

The blond hugged a bowl of grapes, some burnt and others fresh, to his chest as he skipped down the stairs. He didn't have to go far. Just one flight down to his floor.

He pouted a little as he walked to the pantry. It wasn't fair they kicked him out of her room. What gave them the right to be there instead of him?

He didn't brood on it for too long; he was in a good mood today. He got to spend time with his beloved today! That always put him in a good mood...unless she was with someone else. True, it was too bad Leon was there to ruin the fun he had planned out for the two of them, even if it didn't exactly go according to plan and ruined the room, but there would always be a next time.

Maybe we could do something outside when the rain clears up, he hummed, gazing at the rain-splattered windows. The rainfall didn't show any signs of letting up anytime soon. With the rain brought a sense of longing. It reminded him of all the long hours he's spent in his room painting or studying. His toys were taken from him at the early age of five—his parents claimed he's too old for them. All he was given was a blank canvas and a paintbrush.

Jaehyun loved painting. It was a way for him to escape the chains his family wrapped around his throat. He could create beautiful new worlds with a touch of a brush or a splatter of paint, worlds where he wasn't alone. His friends were all made of paint and paper, and that was enough for a little while.

Sometimes he detested art. His art. Everyone's art. He hated commissions, hated when those rich old pigs asked him to create something for them. He didn't want to make something so filthy for another filthy being. Humans were disgusting, dirty, and corrupted. He didn't want something so tainted and foul.

So he vowed never to paint or sculpt any humanoid beautifully ever again.

Well, that's all in the past. Jaehyun left the bowl on the counter and dusted his hands off. He shook his head to free the debris in his hair. Feathers floated down around him like a soft cloud but some still stayed. I have (Y/n) now, he thought with a small smile as he prodded his fingers through his hair and patted down his clothes. So it'll be okay from now on.

The other Jaehyun murmured a soft sound of agreement. Of course he did. It was one of the few things they agreed on. They both liked the same things, but the other him preferred darker themes—grotesque, twisted corpses and canvas depicting violent, bloody dreams—where he was the opposite. Mirror Lake was the first and last piece both of them had applied their touch to.

He spied a bottle of pills resting on the table as he opened the door to his bedroom. Antipsychotics. A prescription he's been taking all his life. His parents didn't like the other Jaehyun. They wanted a normal heir who would take over Kim Enterprises when they retired. They thought the other him was a nuisance, something that would hold behind their golden child. Jaehyun loved the pets he received as a gift, but the other him would kill them. Jaehyun would start a beautiful painting or sculpture, but the other him would tear it up or reduce it to rubble, replacing it with a terrifying new piece that shocked all its viewers. So they wanted the other him gone.

And for a short time, he believed them. He hated the other Jaehyun and the other Jaehyun hated him.

That was different now. Everything was different. Why should he believe any more of the lies his family feeds him? The other him has been his only ally through his whole life...and the only person who understood and felt the aching hollowness in his chest.

They both loved (Y/n). They were the same person. Why try to get rid of the other him when he could simply accept him?

I don't need this anymore then~ Jaehyun giggled as he picked up the bottle of pills and with shocking strength, threw it straight out the window, shattering glass. Or this. He ripped open his drawers and began flinging out the bottles and boxes of medication, all with a bright smile on his face.

His room was a mess now, with spilled pills and bottles rolling all over the floor. But he didn't care. This place was temporary anyway. What was real and permanent was the future he'd create with his own hands. His future with her.

He went back to the art room. He gazed wistfully at the opened cage in the corner and the unlocked chains. Pity I let her out...I didn't even have the chance to finish. He turned his attention to the easel standing in the middle of the room and walked towards it. The boy touched the canvas with a tentative finger, tracing it over the lines and curves of the work.

There she was, (Y/n). Glaring eyes but a firm, emotionless mouth. Even when locked up in such a pitiful state she looked anything but. He loved that spirit. It was what made her more fun.

He had gotten through her face: clear, unmuddled (e/c) eyes and sharp gaze that filled with a bright fire. Bridge of a nose meeting a motionless mouth that held a hint of anger. His face burst into flames when he saw it and he shook his head to clear any indecent thoughts. Bad Jaehyun!

I'll have plenty of chances to finish it someday. He dropped his hand. I've spent wayyy too long without her. If only I've met her sooner...but now that she's in my life, there's no way I'm letting her step out of it.

The blond wrapped his hand around a hidden doorknob disguised behind a bunch of rolled up tapestries and unused canvases. He kicked the materials to the side and turned the knob. The door creaked with age, the hinges a little rusty, and looked like it would break at any second, though it was much stronger than it looked.

When he closed the door behind him, it seemed to blend seamlessly in with the rest of the wall, as it was never there to begin with. The other Jaehyun hummed with delight as their eyes took in the room, their heart sighing in delight. The tension in him finally unwound itself.

"Today's pictures are cute too...especially her worried face." He pulled a picture out of his pocket and kissed it. He picked up a camera he seldom used off a stool and dusted it off. "I guess pictures are nice and all...but something about a painting feels more...intimate, you know?"

Because in a picture, you captured their image. But in a painting...he felt like he captured their soul.

He giggled as he pressed his hands to the wall and rested his forehead to it. "It would be a dream if you were here, (Y/n)...I wonder how much longer I'd have to wait?"

There was no answer to his question, but he smiled anyway. He took a step back as he's always done whenever he came in here to get a grip of himself. This room always had that impact on him. It never failed to calm him on some days and rile him up on others. She had that impact.

Hundreds, if not more, pictures and sketches filled the room. The ceiling, walls, and even the floor. They were arranged neatly and covered every single bit of the otherwise colorless white room. Some were newer than others, made just a few days ago, and some dates to the first year of high school. All of them were slightly different from the next, but they all had one thing in common. They all had a single girl's image in them.

(Y/n).

"Not for long...that's for sure."

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Tristan didn't have to ask to know something was wrong. He observed her face, her furious expression, and the slight trembling of her shoulders. His pale eyes fell to her fisted hands before flickering back to her face. He dusted the last of the feathers off his shirt and peeled his gloves off.

"Where have you been?" He threw the gloves onto the table and pried through his hair for any stray feathers. "You've defied my orders once again, (Y/n). This is becoming a habit and frankly, that can't go unpunished."

"You said you didn't hurt any of my friends," she hissed, ignoring him. "But you bloody lied."

"Lie?" His perfect brows drew together in confusion. His hands halted. "Why are you accusing me of such a thing? I promise you, I have not lied to you since you've arrived. No, even before that."

"You have lied! Kieran said so—you and Leon, you killed Carmen!"

The blue-haired male didn't say anything at first. Her breath came out in broken bursts with her fury that seemed to come back all at once, a serpent inside her that hissed and spat venom. She was angrier than she ever was in her life—angry and hurting. The knife permanently stuck in her chest twisted harshly again, creating bursts of pain that slowly built up into an explosion. It was an explosion with no dampener or reverse gear. All she could see was red. All she wanted was to cause pain.

Tristan finally moved. His face was chilling still, a perfect blank canvas, as he moved towards her. She instinctively took a step back, never looking away from his terrifyingly cold eyes. He stopped right before her, close enough to reach out and snap her neck but not enough to be touching.

"I did have a hand in her demise," he admitted. "But I did not kill her. Therefore, I have not lied."

"That's the same—"

He placed a finger on her lips, hushing her. "Was it my hands that bear her blood? Was it me that pushed in the knife or in her case, pushed her off? No, it was not. I have not and will not lie to you, my dear."

"That's the same bloody thing," she spat before he could interrupt her again. "Even if you didn't kill her directly, it's still your fault!"

"Is it?" He canted his head in mock surprise. "Then by that logic, it's your fault Lucinda Summers died, is it not?"

The sound of the blonde girl on his lips made her anger stumble in its tracks. "W-what?"

"You chose Isla Myers over her, did you not?" Tristan smiled. It was not a comforting sight. "You did not push in the knife but you might as well have. If you chose something else, perhaps they wouldn't have died. And with that, I suppose Isla Myers' death could be attributed to you too. Why did you let her go? And Carmen Parker—why did you leave her alone?"

"Yes, (Y/n)." He took a step closer. "You're the one who killed them, and you have no one else to blame."

He studied her expression, taking delight in the way her pupils dilated, the blood drained from her face, and her despair was written so clearly across her face. How far could he push her? He wondered. To her limits? Beyond her limits? When would she break?

"That's not..." She tried to say. "You're the one who—"

"Am I? Did I pull the trigger? Did I tell Howards to kill Summers instead of Myer? If you had only chosen Summers to live, you could've saved one of the two. Now look at what you did." He dug his fingers into her shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "You killed both of them."

He wanted to laugh. Finally he was able to break her enough to render her speechless. Her acts of defiance were cute, yes, but ultimately troublesome. Tristan didn't need someone who blindly followed him, but at the same time he didn't want her to always fight. He wanted to win in the end.

She won a few battles, but this war was his.

"I'm not going to go easy on you today," he said with a regretful sigh. "I dislike being ignored, my dear. And I've given you so many chances already. Come with me."

His grip was tight, bone-crushingly so, and his brisk walking pace didn't slow even as she stumbled and cried out in pain. They reached a closed steel door that he quickly pulled open and pushed her inside.

"Well, I don't usually give second chances." The light behind him outlined his figure but the darkness within the room cast shifting shadows across his face like a veil. "I usually get rid of anyone who gets ahead of themselves or dare to step a foot out of the line. But you, my dear..."

He bent down and seized her face in a painfully tight grip. "I must admit I'm much softer on you," he murmured, his eyes drifting across her wide, trembling (e/c) eyes and the eye bags under them cast by stress and fatigue. "After all, I love you, (Y/n). This could've been a lot easier if you just listened to me."

She glared at him and tried to pull his hand away. When that didn't work, she kicked at him and dug her nails into his hand. "I want to go home."

Tristan didn't flinch at the pain; only held an arm up to effortlessly block her kick. "This is your home, my dear. By my side." His tone was firm and the blue in his eyes darkened a shade at the flash of defiance in her face. "Anywhere else, and I cannot guarantee your safety."

"Hilarious, but you're living in the wrong era, buddy," she hissed. "I don't need another one of you sexist pigs in this already f*cked up patriarchal society. Choke on a popsicle."

Even through the determination blazing brightly in her eyes, he saw a familiar glimmer of fear. She was strong, still fighting and clinging onto hope, but hope could be easily extinguished. People could be easily broken. Her guard was breaking.

And it made him smile. He released her and let her fall to the ground and scrambled back. "Human bodies are quite easy to break," he reminded her as he rose to his feet. She looked up at him in shock, dread slowly settling over her features. "And minds are no exception. Don't worry—I'd never hurt you, but discipline is rather important to me. You'll understand right?"

Her lips pulled back into a grimace. Instead of a beg for mercy or a scared cry like he was expecting, what came out of her mouth was, "I hope you land arse first on a bear trap, a**ho—"

But before she could say anymore or retaliate, he was onto her, locking her wrists in a steel-tight grip while the other hand snaked behind her head and gripped the back of her neck. His fingers dug harshly into her skin and she winced.

"I dare you to finish that sentence," he growled, his eyes blazing with anger like two pits of blue fire. "I dare you to say that again. See what happens to you."

She tried to punch his jaw and break free of his grip. Both attempts were futile. "Let me go, you patronizing son of a batch of cookies—"

His lips came crashing onto hers, muffling her cry. It wasn't hungry or teasing like Kieran's; it was brutal, dominant, and frightening. There was no spark of passion between them. It was more like he was doing it to prove a point—that he was the one with power and she was no threat to him. That she was his to do whatever he wanted with.

His eyes were closed, his long, pale lashes casting faint shadows on his high cheekbones. His other hand weaved through her hair to deepen the kiss even as she kicked and struggled, striking anything she could reach. She tried to pull her hands out of his grip and push him away, but he wouldn't budge.

After what felt like an eternity did he release her. She stumbled backward, her arm immediately raising to wipe her mouth. There was no smile on his lips when she glared up at him. Only a burning intensity in his otherwise cold gaze that promised an inferno to come.

"Don't try anything," he finally spoke, turning towards the door. "It'll get you nowhere. When will you learn?"

Her eyes widened in fear as his hand gripped the edge of the steel door. "No, wait—!"

But it was too late. He slammed the door shut and locked it tight, sealing her away in a tiny vault entirely devoid of light. Her hands landed against cold, hard steel and her cries fell flat. She was alone.

With darkness. And nothing else.