𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐃 | NEUVILLETTE, R.

-[𝘼𝘾𝙏. 𝟶𝟷]-[𝘾𝙃. 03]-} 𝗜 𝗛𝗔𝗧𝗘 𝗧𝗛𝗘 𝗣𝗥𝗘𝗦𝗦!

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As the seconds stretched into eternity, the air grew thick with an unspoken tension. Freminet's eyes, wide with confusion, shifted rapidly between you and his siblings. His lips parted, but no words came. His usually composed nature seemed to crack, and a quiet dread began to settle in the room like a cloud of smoke. Something was off. His instincts told him that—his every breath growing shorter with the weight of it. The soft, rhythmic hum of the ocean beyond the window felt distant now, as if the world outside had ceased to exist. It was just you, and them. And the terrible truth that was beginning to creep its way into the corner of their minds.

Lynette was the first to break the stillness, her gaze lingering on you with a hesitation that stung deeper than any rejection. "Prince?" Her voice trembled, low and fragile, as if testing the waters. But something in her tone—something that wasn't quite right—set off a cold, sharp feeling in your chest.

Her eyes searched you, searching for recognition in the familiar features that had long since changed, twisted by the passage of time. She took a slow, cautious step forward, and with it came a tightening in her posture, her hands curling subtly into fists at her sides. It was the first time you had seen her like this—unguarded, untrusting. Her every movement was now measured, as if trying to shield herself from what she feared might come next.

"Is it really you?" Her words came again, but this time they carried a weight that struck you harder than anything. The suspicion was creeping into her gaze. The silence in the room hung like a warning bell, echoing through the air.

Lyney, never one to hold back, took a step closer, his brows furrowed, his lips pursed tightly. There was a flash of something in his eyes—doubt, maybe, or fear. His sharp instincts had always been at the forefront of his performances, and now they were on high alert, as though something in your presence was... wrong. His gaze flickered to Freminet, his mouth a thin line, and then back to you. He'd seen something that didn't match, a crack in the illusion. "How do we know we can trust him?" Lyney asked, the question slipping from his lips like a dagger wrapped in velvet. "He killed his parents."

And that was it. The room shifted. The balance of trust that had once been a shared bond between you and them started to break apart, piece by piece, like an old painting falling from the wall. Freminet stiffened, his gaze never leaving yours. He was trying to piece things together, to understand, but something in the way he looked at you—sharply, his hands clenched into fists—told you everything you needed to know. The boy you had once known, the one who trusted without question, now stood at a distance, uncertain and guarded.

And then, his voice, quiet and raw, filled the air. "I—don't think I can trust my own head anymore," Freminet whispered, a hollow ache in his words. "You're... you're acting like him, but... doesn't that mean..?" His voice faltered, and his body trembled with a quiet panic that you had never seen before. His fingers curled into the fabric of his sleeves as if trying to ground himself, trying to avoid the truth that was settling into his chest like a stone.