Alistair's shoes remained still.
He didn't move.
Didn't speak.
The silence stretched—long, excruciating, suffocating.
Ezra stayed frozen beneath the bed, every muscle locked in place, heart pounding so violently he was certain Alistair could hear it.
Then, ever so slowly, Alistair crouched.
Cassian tensed.
Ezra squeezed his eyes shut.
But Alistair didn't look beneath the bed.
Instead, his gloved fingers reached toward the floor, brushing against a small drop of crimson—the blood that had dripped from Cassian's back. He brought his fingers up, rolling them between leather and skin, inspecting the smear of deep red.
And then, to Ezra's horror—
Alistair brought his hand to his lips and sucked the blood from his fingertips.
"How messy," he murmured, quiet disapproval laced through every syllable. "You should be more careful, Cassian. Wouldn't want to stain such a pristine room, would you?"
Cassian said nothing.
A pause.
Then—
A soft chuckle. Low. Amused.
Alistair rose to his full height, wiping his fingers against a pristine white handkerchief with slow, deliberate ease. His gaze swept across the room, searching.
"But I suppose," he said, voice turning lighter—almost playful, "a rat wouldn't care much about cleanliness."
Ezra's breath hitched.
Cassian remained silent.
Alistair tapped his fingers against the edge of the desk, thoughtful. Then—he moved.
Ezra tensed, nails digging into the wood beneath him.
But instead of looking under the bed, Alistair strolled to the desk. A gloved finger drifted across the polished surface, checking for dust.
"You've always been so particular, little brother," he said softly, almost nostalgically. "Everything in its place. A perfect arrangement."
He wiped his fingers together and flicked whatever dust he found to the floor.
"And yet…" he continued, tilting his head, "something feels off tonight."
Ezra felt something cold coil in his chest.
Still, Cassian said nothing.
Alistair's steps shifted, closer now. Ezra swallowed, every nerve screaming.
Then—abruptly—
Alistair turned.
The faintest smile touched his lips, half-hidden by shadow.
"Well," he said, reaching for the door, "perhaps I'm imagining things."
The door creaked softly as it opened.
"But you know, Cassian…" he paused, glancing back over his shoulder, voice still light—yet edged like a blade.
"A rat in the house is a dangerous thing."
The words lingered in the air, heavy and sharp.
Then, he stepped out.
The door clicked shut behind him.
The silence that followed was deafening.
Cassian remained still, unmoving in the center of the room. Then—finally—
He exhaled.
With a slow movement, he ran a hand through his tousled hair. The gesture pulled at the wounds across his back, splitting them wider. Blood welled anew and trickled down his spine, dripping to the floor.
But he didn't flinch.
Didn't care.
He crossed the room in silence and lowered himself onto the piano bench, every movement measured.
His fingers—bloodied and trembling—hovered above the ivory keys.
Then, he pressed down.
A single note.
Then another.
A melody unfolded—haunting, hollow. Each note lingered like breath in cold air.
It was beautiful.
And unbearably sad.
The dim light cut sharp angles across his frame, casting shadows over the rigid lines of his back. Wounds, both fresh and faded, crisscrossed his skin—testimonies written in red.
Still, he played.
Still, he bled.
His fingers moved with the familiarity of ritual, coaxing a mournful song from the keys. A lament unspoken. A requiem for something long broken.
And the music did not stop.
Not even as blood pooled beneath him.