Clara's POV
I walked beside Ciel in silence, the kind that felt heavier than words. He carried Jason's body—limp, blood trailing in slow, terrible drops along the floor. Each step left a stain, like a breadcrumb trail of tragedy.
When we reached the room at the end of the hall, Ciel laid Jason gently on the bed. The sheets turned crimson beneath him, the red blooming like some cruel flower.
"Clara," Ciel called, his voice low, frayed, almost not his own. He sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders bowed, shadows hollowing his face. "You should go back to your room. I don't know if Lila is still around. It would be safer."
"No," I said instantly, shaking my head. "I'm not leaving. Not like this. I don't think it's right."
Ciel stood, closing the distance between us, his eyes finally meeting mine. They were stormy, broken, yet somehow steady. He placed his hands on my shoulders, his touch light but firm.
