The silence between them was no longer empty.It was thick—heavy with unspoken things.
Liora sat with her back against the cold wall, ankles still strapped but looser than before. She hadn't touched the fruit or water. Just the bread. It had been dry and tasteless… but it had reminded her of something she couldn't name. Maybe warmth. Maybe the part of her that still craved life, even if it hurt.
The door creaked again.
She didn't look up this time.
Aeron entered, slower than before. He wasn't holding a tray, or a weapon. Just a notebook. Black. Worn. He didn't speak. Just pulled a metal chair across the room and sat, facing her.
His presence filled the room like a storm cloud.
Liora finally glanced at him.
"You've been watching me," she said softly.
He didn't deny it.
"Do you always stare at your victims before you kill them?"
Still no answer.
She laughed once—sharp and small.
"So what is it?" she asked. "Why haven't you killed me yet? Am I too boring for your collection? Not pretty enough?"
His eyes narrowed.
"You are pretty," he said coldly.
The words made her flinch—not because she didn't believe them, but because she hated the sound of them from his mouth.
"Then why am I still breathing?" she snapped, voice rising. "Isn't that why you take them? Because they're beautiful?"
Aeron didn't move, but his jaw clenched.
"What do you see when you look at me?" Liora asked suddenly. "Be honest."
His fingers tightened around the notebook.
"I see weakness," he said. "Sadness. Fragility."
She nodded slowly, almost proud.
"Good. That's real. That's all I've ever been."
He stared at her like he didn't believe it.
"But you also try to look strong," he added. "You don't scream. You don't beg. That's not normal."
"I gave up begging years ago," she whispered. "No one listened."
For a moment, Aeron was silent.
Then, quietly, he said:
"My father begged."
Liora blinked.
That was the first time he'd mentioned anything personal.
"Your father?"
Aeron nodded, just once. His voice was flat, like he was reading from a file in his head.
"My father was a good man. Soft. Honest. He loved one woman—too much. And she destroyed him. Lied. Cheated. Framed him for things he never did. Then… she killed him."
His tone didn't change. Not angry. Not sad. Just… hollow.
"Your mother?" Liora asked, stunned.
He nodded again.
"Beautiful. Everyone said so. Long legs. Bright smile. Cold heart."
Something flickered in his eyes—something sharp.
"She taught me what beauty really is. A weapon."
Liora sat frozen.
He looked at her now like she reminded him of something lost… or broken.
"You hate beauty," she said quietly.
"I hate liars," he corrected. "And beauty hides the biggest lies."
She stared at him. Not with fear—but with understanding. Her voice softened.
"Not everyone who's beautiful lies. Some of us… were just born this way. And we're tired of paying for it."
Aeron's eyes darkened.
"That's what they all said," he whispered. "Before they screamed."
She didn't flinch this time.
"But I didn't scream," she said gently.
He stood quickly. The chair screeched behind him. His breath came out sharper than before.
"Don't play games with me," he warned.
"I'm not," she said. "I'm just asking you to look at me—and see me. Not her. Not your mother. Not the others."
He stared at her. And for a second—just one second—he wavered.
Then, without another word, he turned and left, slamming the door behind him.
The camera light blinked.
Liora exhaled deeply, heart racing. She was still afraid. But she had seen something behind his eyes.
Pain.
Not the kind that makes people cry.
The kind that turns people into monsters.
And maybe—just maybe—he didn't want to be a monster anymore.