Theresa stood before him, vial in hand, looking down at the man who had rejected her, who still belonged to someone else in his heart.
"Then," she whispered, voice trembling with emotion she could no longer control, "if you won't choose me… You won't get to choose anyone."
Riven didn't stir when he heard the door creak open, part of him had accepted that pain was inevitable here. But when he saw Theresa step in, his tired eyes softened with a flicker of confusion rather than fear.
"Theresa?" His voice was hoarse, filled with disbelief.
She moved slowly, deliberately, her golden hair catching the dim torchlight. In her hand was a small, stoppered vial containing a strange, shimmering liquid. Riven didn't even think to question it. Theresa had been kind to him—or at least, she had worn that kindness like a mask well enough. He never imagined she'd be the one to strike next.
She closed the cell door behind her with a quiet click.
