As Faust reached out, his fingers brushing Margaretta’s hand, her memories flooded his mind. He saw Mephistopheles through her eyes—a man of charm and wit, whosegaze held a vulnerability that disarmed even Faust. He saw their time together, their shared laughter and whispered confessions, their moments of intimacy that felt startlingly genuine.

But then he saw more.

He saw Mephistopheles’ true form flickering beneath his glamour, his flesh glowing in the moonlight. He saw the subtle ways the devil manipulated the world around him—the salt, the light, the heat—all designed to draw Margaretta closer, to ensnare her in his web.

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Yet, beneath it all, Faust saw something unexpected. Love. Genuine, raw, and unguarded. Mephistopheles cared for Margaretta, not as a pawn or a plaything, but as something precious. It was a realization that left Faust shaken.

When he pulled back, Margaretta was watching him intently. “Well?” she asked softly. “What did you see?”

Faust hesitated, the weight of his discovery pressing down on him. “He loves you,” he said finally, his voice barely above a whisper.

Margaretta smiled, a faint, bittersweet curve of her lips. “I told you,” she said simply.