He parks at a lavishly beautiful farmhouse, almost too perfect. Twisting vines hug pristine columns. Fairy lights drip like stars. But something's off—an old sculpture of a blindfolded man devouring a heart sits near the entrance. Almost buried in greenery. Almost like it wasn't supposed to be seen.
Aurora shivers, but says nothing.
Dio walks ahead. His presence carries quiet gravity—tall, dressed in a tailored charcoal suit that absorbs the moonlight. A silver chain glints at his collar. His hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, and the faintest trace of cologne clings to the cold air between them.
On the rooftop, Dio's prepared everything. Strings of golden lights dangled above, and the table was dressed in white linen, two seats facing each other under the stars. No staff. Just them. The silence is soft. Intimate. Dangerous.
Aurora smiles, caught off guard. For someone so cold and unreadable, he's decorated the rooftop with delicate charm. Maybe he's not what he seems. Or maybe she's just starting to peel back the layers.
He pulls out her chair.
"I didn't expect this," she murmurs.
"I like quiet," Dio replies, pouring deep red wine into their glasses.
Aurora's eyes flick to the plate he sets down in front of her. "What's this?"
"Pancreas," he says, with a smirk.
She goes still. "Dio, I'm vegetarian. I don't like to harm animals."
He laughs—but it's too cold. "Who said it belonged to animals?"
The air freezes.
Aurora's throat tightens. "What… what do you mean?"
He calmly pours sauce over his meal. "Humans," she whispers, her voice cracking.
Dio nods. A crooked smile plays on his lips as he slices the meat with reverence. He lifts a bite to his lips, chews slowly, eyes fluttering shut. A soft moan escapes him—as if it's the most pleasurable thing he's ever tasted.
The breeze turns sharp—but only for her.
"Dio, please… say this is a joke."
He leans in, voice low like velvet over a blade. "Aurora. Humans deserve to taste their own cruelty."
She freezes.
"I want equality," he continues. "For the mute. For the beautiful. For the voiceless."
He stands, gently pulls her chair closer. His hand rests on hers—trembling in her lap.He keeps eating, as if the conversation were a mere background noise—too enchanted by the flavor to stop.
"But it's wrong," she whispers, tears in her eyes.
"Was it wrong," Dio says, voice tightening, "when they killed my pet for 'security concerns'? An innocent monkey I rescued from France—ripped from me because they feared he was 'helping the enemy.'"
His pain is real. And it slices into her.
"You know," he adds, gentler now, "I've never told this to anyone. But you… you're different."
Aurora swallows. "I once lost my cat. My neighbor poisoned her. Said she scratched his new car."
Dio nods slowly. "See? We're not that different."
"Humans are monsters," he says bitterly. "Nothing less than leeches with a crown."
"You're right, Dio," Aurora says softly—uncertain whether it's truth or fear that guides her words.
He takes out a fork and gestures toward her plate."Take a bite."
She hesitates. Trembles. Closes her eyes.
And takes a bite.
"See?" he begins. "Wasn't that har—"
But before he finishes, she stumbles away and vomits in the washroom.
Dio follows—calm. Unbothered.
"Fine," he shrugs. "I have dessert."
Aurora looks up at him, pale and shaking.
He lifts a tray. "Don't look at me like that. It's just tiramisu."
She returns to the table. This time, they eat in silence.
But the silence is loud. Deafening.
He drives her back. No more talk of ethics. Or revenge. Or creatures with hearts too soft for this world.
As he opens the door for her, she whispers, breaking the silence "Thank you for the date, Dio."
He pauses. "Shouldn't I be the one thanking you?"
"See you later," she says softly.
"See you later, bella signora," he replies.
She watches his car disappear into the night.
The date was somewhat strange. Haunting. Unforgettable.
And yet—she smiles as she walks to her floor.
"Ma'am," the guard calls out, "a visitor came earlier. Waited long. Left this note."
She opens it. Her lips twitch into something warmer. Softer.
She whispers, "Idiot."
Note: I'm here in Norwich for some important work. Will meet you soon, Squirtle.
She walks on—bouquet in one hand, the note in the other.
One from a man who terrifies her.
One from someone who makes her heart feel like home.
And in that fragile, flickering moment, she carries both—beauty and poison, love and warning.