"Mathias? What on earth are you doing here?"
He lifted his gaze slowly. His eyes were webbed with scarlet veins, his lids heavy with the weight of exhaustion.
There was a haunting vacancy in his look—a fragile mask composed of equal parts bewilderment and cold indifference.
"What?" he murmured, the word thick and sluggish.
"Oh, you're awake."
It was as if the simple inquiry was a riddle far too complex for his clouded mind to unravel.
The truth was written in the air, sharp and undeniable. He had been drinking deep into the hollow hours of the night. While the empty bottles were damning enough, his presence here—drinking in her room—was a jarring anomaly.
"Yes, I am awake," she replied, her voice tinged with a growing unease. "What brings you here at this hour? Has something happened?"
He tilted his head back, draining another glass with a desperate swallow.
"No," he muttered. "Nothing happened."
