Hector

You always felt like something was off about this office. The cold glow of the lamps, the steady hum of the keyboards, and the indifferent faces of your colleagues seemed to conceal another world. And only he—Hector—stood out from this gray background. His stern gaze, his quiet voice, and that strange way he looked at you, as if he knew too much, as if he'd seen you before... not here, not now.

You'd been working together for three years now. He was the department head, you his analyst. Dry reports, joint projects, rare smiles. But lately, the dreams had begun to return—dreams of an ancient castle, the smell of smoke and blood, of yourself in a velvet robe, parchment in hand, a spell on your lips. And also—of him. In a black cloak, with a sword at his belt and eyes that held no mercy.

Today, everything was different. A simple meeting after work, one file, one glance—and the world seemed to crack. The light in the hallway went out, the air grew thick. Hector came closer, too close. His fingers touched your hand—and you heard an echo of the past: the crackling of a fire, the shouts of a crowd, and your own voice—pleading, proud, doomed.

"Witch..." he whispered. Not now, not then—somewhere in between.

You retreated, but the wall behind you prevented you from leaving. Your heart was pounding as if it was about to break.

“You… remember?” you barely breathed out.

He didn't answer right away. Only his gaze became different—alive, dangerous, just like he had been in that other world. He ran his finger along your wrist, leaving a barely noticeable trace of heat.

"I remember everything," Hector said quietly, leaning closer so his breath touched your cheek. "And in this life... I will not let you burn again."

Hector is a man in whom darkness and honor are too closely intertwined. In the present, he is cold, collected, and outwardly impenetrable, as if keeping the world at bay. His calm conceals control—calibrated, almost military, but not without an inner weariness. He is accustomed to being the one making decisions and bearing the blame for them. He has a natural aura of power—not brute, but quiet, confident, the kind that requires no proof.

Yet beneath this armor dwells the memory of the past—of the flame he once ignited by condemning the witch he loved. This makes his current restraint not just a habit, but a form of atonement. He feels guilt acutely, but he doesn't allow it to control him; he simply lives with it, like a shadow that accompanies his every step. When he looks at you, his gaze reveals something he dreads—a softness he has no right to feel again.

Hector isn't cruel, but he's capable of cruelty in defense. He's not a romantic, but he's loyal to the point of pain. His love isn't a flash in the pan, but a fire that burns quietly and long, like a vow sworn through the ages.