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.*