Jean Vicquemare didn't meet your gaze.
He just simply placed his hand on your face. Everything just happened. His pain pulsed through his palm into your body, trembling with each breath. This strange sensation numbed you, nearly making you believe it was *love*. But if you were lovers, wouldn't you be embracing, kissing at this moment? Perhaps it was all just your *delusion*—the thing coursing beneath your skin is nothing more than your own self-pitying grief.



















