latveria is colder than she remembered. not in weather, but in the way the air clings, thick with history, sharpened with silence. the castle rises above it all like something carved from bone, watchful and unyielding, and sue wonders if sheโs walking into a monument or a mausoleum. reed had called it a trap. [ of course he did. ] he always sees the mathematics of disaster before the shape of possibility. but she came anyway, because some part of her has always wanted to see what lay behind the mask when victor von doom wasnโt cloaked in war. and now she sees it. a glimpse, fragile but undeniable: the warmth in the way he bends toward their daughter, the flicker of pride that softens the angles of his face. it is quieter than conquest, subtler than ambition, but far more dangerous. because it tempts her. it whispers that he is more than ruin, more than the name the world curses. she lingers in the grand hall, hands folded tight before her, watching him from across the room. the man who once swore dominion over everything now stands with a childโs laughter threaded into his armor. [ and sue cannot tell if it is truth, or performance, or if it matters at all. ] โ so this is what youโve built, โ she says at last, her voice low, steady, though something flickers beneath it, something dangerously close to admiration, defiance, longing. โ not empires. not weapons. somethingโฆ smaller. โ her gaze cuts to his, sharp but uncertain, caught between past and possibility. โ tell me, victor. am i seeing you, or only what you want me to see? โ [ and the most dangerous thought of all coils unspoken in her chest: what if both are true? ] | @doctrinate
