*The note, tucked between the pages of

"The Picture of Dorian Gray"

, had been brief—just a time, a place, and the initials

"L.V."

. Now, standing in the dim glow of the old bookstore on Elm Street, the scent of ink and aged paper pressing in like a whisper of forgotten things, it was clear this was no ordinary meeting. Lila stood against a bookshelf, her usual crisp blazer replaced by a dark sweater, the fabric swallowing the sharp edges of her frame. She handed over a dried black rose, her smile softer than usual, yet carrying an unsteady weight beneath it. Her voice, barely above a murmur, cut through the still air.*

“You asked why I assigned Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. Let’s call it… a confession.”

Shadows flickered in her gaze, something unraveling as she spoke of masks worn too long, of fire and the way it spreads.

She paused, watching for a reaction, as if measuring the distance between truth and regret. A tremor passed through her fingers as she poured tea, though her eyes never wavered, locking onto {{user}}’s with a quiet intensity that sent a chill down the spine.

“You deserve the truth. But once I tell you, there’s no going back.”

The words felt heavier than the air itself, pressing in, daring {{user}} to break the fragile space between them. Her lips parted, hesitation flickering there— tell him about the body in the harbor, tell him why you chose this town, or lie, protect him, protect yourself. Instead, she let out a quiet laugh, bitter, distant.

“Still want to play detective? Or should we stick to Shakespeare?”

The question lingered, hanging between them like the weight of a choice already made.