“Prosecutor.”The low voice slipped out between his slowly parting lips. Above Nathaniel Miller’s head, the pale moon hung unusually large, casting a ghostly light. For a moment, I felt as if a scene from a Gothic novel had come to life—though he wore no cloak, bared no fangs, and spread no black wings.Maybe it was the contrast of his alabaster skin against those red lips. Ridiculous thought, I chastised myself—but when he parted his lips, I couldn’t help staring, half-expecting to see fangs flash.I hated myself for thinking such nonsense, and murmured weakly, “…Mr. Miller.”At last, he gave me a polite smile—so perfectly practiced in its tilt that it sent a shiver down my spine.I thought the sweet scent in his smoke had grown stronger. Perhaps it was only my imagination. It didn’t matter. I had to accept the miserable truth: here I stood, face to face with the one person I most wanted to avoid, despite all my efforts to duck this exact scenario.“I didn’t expect to run into you here.”I forced a casual tone, but Nathaniel Miller didn’t respond immediately. He only looked down at me with that unchanging expression and inhaled smoke slowly. I watched him exhale, the tendrils of smoke curling into the night air.“I saw a familiar face…”After a few tense seconds, he spoke, drawing out the words as if savoring them. I almost let my guard down when he continued in that deliberate, measured tone.“I thought it courteous to say hello.”He lingered on the final syllable, as if to underline that he’d spotted me in the bar. Unlike my tense posture, he looked completely at ease—an amused spectator. Realizing that stung me with fresh shame. We’d both come to a seedy bar, yet it was me who felt exposed.I exhaled sharply and bit out a sardonic reply.“So polite of you to watch a fight, then.”I tried to laugh it off, but the pain in my face made it a grimace. He must have recognized my discomfort, yet his expression stayed impassive.“I waited until it was over.”I couldn’t tell if he was earnest or mocking. Most people either break up a fight or walk away—yet he’d lingered to watch, then called it anything but voyeurism?“Wouldn’t the courteous thing be to look the other way if you weren’t going to help?”I thought, He should’ve just fucked off, you crazy bastard. But I wrapped it in a veneer of politeness. He tilted his head, ➤ NоvеⅠight ➤ (Read more on our source) a gesture of mild puzzlement—and I realized he hadn’t followed me out of concern or malice, but mere curiosity.“How am I to tell if you were enjoying yourself or hated it?”He still sounded unnervingly calm. I was speechless—my first-ever inability to find words. A few seconds of stunned silence passed before I managed to respond.“You can’t tell the difference? Between dislike and desire?”I snapped, more openly angry this time. Yet his face revealed nothing.“It’s not easy.”He answered serenely. I wondered if he was like those rapists who assume consent when someone resists.“Then you figure it out. Am I enjoying this right now—or angry?”I taunted him, and he paused before answering.“Your voice trembles. I’d say you’re angry.”Ridiculous. My voice hadn’t trembled at all. Was he testing me? And that pause—did he even consider the question? I frowned. He added gently:“If you’d asked for help, I’d have helped.”How many perverts had he encountered to think that way?I almost spat an insult, but a memory from the pheromone party stopped me cold. A chill of realization crept through me, and I silently conceded: this was his world.I shook my head, brushed hair from my face—and remembered the ache. Glancing at my watch, I saw it was past two a.m.I was done. No desire, no fight left in me. All I wanted was my bed. I started to walk away.“Well then, I’ll take my leave.”I didn’t look back, speeding off to escape this humiliation—until the world went black.…Huh.I blinked, then the next moment I was staring up at the sky. Confused, I tried to lift my head, when that same courteous voice spoke.“Are you all right?”I jolted awake. I’d fainted. But relief didn’t come. I looked up at the towering figure before me and bolted upright, then winced as my head throbbed.I rubbed the spot behind my ear—no blood. I exhaled, realizing how utterly mortifying this was. At least I hadn’t cracked my skull. But my luck ended there. Nathaniel Miller, cane in hand, still looked down at me as he spoke.“There doesn’t appear to be any bleeding.”He offered unwanted concern and held out a hand. I ignored it and hauled myself up, brushing dust from my clothes. He said again:“Shall I see you home?”I couldn’t hide my disgust.“I’m fine. I can get myself there.”“I see.”He straightened, unfazed by my curt refusal, and even managed a slight smile.“This was precisely the moment I could have helped you.”

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