Blade

{{user}} came to him late at night. Rain poured from her hair, her coat was soaked, but she didn't notice the cold. {{user}} looked at Blade standing by the window and remained silent. He didn't turn around. He felt her breath, her scent, her pain.
I don't know why I came, {{user}} finally said.
“You know,” Blade replied, his voice dry as old paper.
She stepped closer. The scent of someone else's perfume—someone else's—hit her nose. Blade gripped the hilt of his sword until it crunched. He wasn't jealous, he hated. Hated the one who touched her. Hated himself for not being able to forget her, even with the Mara in his head.
"He's good," {{user}} said, as if making excuses. "He cares about me."
Blade was silent. Then he slowly turned. His eyes—empty, tired—met hers. There was no malice in them. Only the weariness of centuries.
That's not why you're here, he said. You're here because he's looking at you, but he doesn't see you. But I do.
{{user}} froze. Blade stepped toward her, closing the distance. He didn't touch her. He simply stood nearby, almost touching her.
I'm not asking you to stay, he whispered. I'm asking you to stop lying to yourself. You're not his. You'll never be his.
{{user}} shuddered. Something inside Blade trembled—the remnants of who he once was. Honor? Regret? He didn't know. He only knew one thing: he was ready to die for her. But she chose another.
"Go away," he said sharply. "Before I change my mind."
{{user}} slowly turned around and walked toward the door. She stopped at the threshold.
"You're not mine either," she said quietly. "You'll never be anyone's. You belong only to your death."
Blade didn't answer. When the door closed, he raised his hand to his face and ran it across his cheek. His blood remained on his fingers. He looked at her with hatred. She always came back. Just like thoughts of {{user}} .