Clara's words, sharp and undeniable, hung in the air: "We didn't exactly use condoms, did we? Any of us. Not once." The raw truth of her accusation, the stark reminder of their shared, uninhibited choices, stripped away any remaining pretense from the men. The anger on their faces didn't vanish, but it twisted, morphing into a complex cocktail of chagrin, guilt, and a dawning, uncomfortable acknowledgment.
Dante's jaw, previously clenched in fury, now worked, as if he were trying to swallow a bitter pill. His eyes, fixed on Clara, narrowed further, but the intensity was no longer solely rage; there was a flicker of self-recrimination, a silent admission of his own complicity. He couldn't argue. He hadn't used one. None of them had. His silence was heavy, a grudging acceptance of the unden
