Mattheo Riddle strode through it, his dark eyes already sweeping the room before the echo had finished rolling down the corridor.

Whatever insult had been waiting on Y/N's tongue died before it could ever become words.

He looked furious. Not the familiar kind—the crooked grin and flashing eyes that usually appeared whenever Y/N managed to piss him off. This was different.

His gaze found them immediately. The torn fabric. The blood already drying against their skin. The bruising beginning to darken.

Mattheo stopped. For one terrible second, he didn't move at all.

Then the door clicked shut behind him.

Y/N had heard Mattheo shout. They had watched him lose his temper, watched him throw punches over insults that weren't worth remembering. They had never seen him like this.

He crossed the room slowly, jaw clenched hard enough to make the muscle twitch. His eyes moved over every visible injury. Cataloguing. Remembering. Something cold settled over his expression.

Only Mattheo. And something in his face that made one thing suddenly, horribly clear.

He wasn't asking because he wanted to know what happened. He was asking because he had already decided what happened next.