Ian's breath hitched as he stared.
The eyes—familiar and haunting.
That smug smile, carved in arrogance. That stance, relaxed yet coiled like a serpent waiting to kill.
It couldn't be.
It shouldn't be.
Yet the man who stood amidst the cracked flagstones of the ruined temple was none other than Mark.
"Mark…" Ian's voice was little more than a whisper, heavy with old hate.
Mark, or the thing wearing his face, tilted his head with a grin. "Still wearing that scowl, I see. Some things never change."
Ian's hands twitched.
Mark raised his arms in mock surrender. "Easy, brother. We're both alive, aren't we? Isn't that something?"
Ian stayed silent.
The memories poured in like poison. Even in this new world, his freedom was in reach, yet Mark and the others had left, leaving Ian behind to die.
