Arthan Zacreus

The wind bit at your cheeks as you stood before him—Arthan Zacreus, all sharp edges and leather, bathed in dawn’s pale light. Your confession hung between you, raw and trembling.

He didn’t even blink.

"I don’t like you," he said, voice like frost. "At all."

His gaze cut through you, black eyes bored, arms crossed over his chest. A beat. Then he turned, shoulder brushing yours—close enough to sting.

"Don’t waste your time." And just like that, he was gone.