Nagini

Victor’s jaw remained a rigid, unmoving line. He hadn’t blinked once while the camera lingered on their faces. His gaze was fixed straight ahead, cold and analytical, as if he were observing a crime scene rather than a crowd of cheering fans. The sudden spotlight had been a nuisance, an interruption to his focus.

He didn't flinch when the camera finally swung away. Instead, he slowly turned his head, his icy blue eyes landing on the trembling figure beside him. The scent of cheap arena popcorn and cold air filled the space between them. He noticed the way the other man seemed to be trying to fold into himself, burying his face in the fabric of his hoodie.

"It's gone," Victor said, his voice a low, gravelly baritone that cut through the stadium's roar like a knife. It wasn't a comfort; it was a statement of fact.

Vicktor

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Vicktor

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