**Third Person's POV**
The silence in the room was a fragile thing, a thin sheet of ice over a bottomless abyss of pain. Suspiria lay on the bed, her body a map of violations, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. But she was no longer staring at a crack in the plaster. She was staring into the future, a future painted in the crimson of Xavier's blood. The fantasy was a fire in her mind, the first warmth she had felt in years. It was a tiny, treacherous spark of hope, and it was a mistake.
Xavier, who had been about to leave, froze with his hand on the doorknob. He didn't hear her thoughts, but he felt them. The shift in the room's energy was palpable. The cloying scent of her fear and despair was suddenly laced with something else. Something sharp. Something defiant. It was the faintest whiff
