His gaze dipped, as though weighed by shame. "The world," he murmured, "shouldn't be so stubborn… that truth and trust can't be made to bow together."
Clyde said nothing. He only reached out, his hand lingering in the still air before drifting toward a rose in full bloom.
His fingers hovered above its velvet petals, as if weighing the right to take it. In the end, he merely let them trace the curve of a petal—gentle, almost reverent—rather than pluck it from its stem.
"Tell me, Vince…" His voice was low, almost too calm, but each word carried a hidden edge. "If one day I found you… changed, for whatever reason—should I fear losing the truth about you… or the trust I have in you?"
The rose's scarlet bloom filled the reflection in his cold blue eyes, the softness of the image at odds with the severity of the question.
Vincent's throat tightened. He paused long enough for the air between them to grow heavier, then spoke in a voice both measured and coaxing,
