Florian was agitated.
His footsteps echoed harshly against the cold marble floor, sharp and uneven like a frantic heartbeat. Every step sounded too loud in his ears, a harsh reminder of the storm boiling in his chest.
The sting wouldn't stop.
It had started as a dull ache—manageable, almost forgettable. But now, it pulsed like a blade twisting deeper with every breath. Hot. Burning. Raw. Unrelenting.
It wasn't his pain.
Not really.
It was the agony that came with wearing this cursed body—a body that still remembered the emotions of its original owner. A boy named Florian who had once loved, once hoped, once shattered—and whose soul still haunted these bones like a ghost chained to its own corpse.
"…Your Highness…"
Cashew's voice floated behind him, soft and uncertain, trembling with concern. But Florian didn't stop.
It was fucked.
All of it.
