Please get me out of this BL novel...I'm straight!
Chapter 92: ’Who Are You?’

Chapter 92: ’Who Are You?’

’What time is it?’

Florian stepped into Heinz’s office, his posture tense despite the exhaustion weighing down his limbs. The dim candlelight flickered against the polished wooden walls, casting long shadows across the vast chamber. There were no knights stationed at the door, no attendants waiting in the wings. The silence was heavy, pressing against him like an invisible force. Outside the tall windows, the sky was ink-black, the castle halls eerily quiet.

’It’s late. Probably past midnight...’

The realization sent a fresh wave of fatigue through him. ’Has it really only been a day?’ It felt impossible. So much had happened—his capture, his escape, Arthur’s death. Every event bled into the next, leaving him mentally and physically drained. And yet, he couldn’t rest.

Heinz had called him here for a reason.

’Couldn’t he have just said whatever he wanted earlier?’ Florian thought, suppressing a sigh.

Heinz, unfazed as ever, strode toward his desk and sank into his chair with practiced ease, adjusting himself into a comfortable position. Florian remained standing before him, spine straight despite the dull aches creeping through his body.

"Right... before we begin, how are you feeling?"

Florian blinked. ’He’s asking me this again?’

He forced a pleasant smile. "I feel even better now compared to earlier, Your Majesty."

"That’s good." Heinz nodded, then tapped a finger against the desk, a slow, rhythmic motion. "Have any of the princesses visited you?"

Florian hesitated. ’Why would they?’ The words almost slipped out, but he caught himself, shaking his head instead. "No, they haven’t."

"Mhm." Heinz’s expression was unreadable. "I heard many of them were quite worried about you, considering you sacrificed yourself for them."

That—that made Florian pause. Warmth bloomed in his chest. He had been trying for so long to befriend the princesses, carefully maneuvering through their world of courtly intrigue. It had been a risk, a dangerous gamble. But now, hearing that his actions had left an impact, that his sacrifice had meant something—

’It worked. It actually worked.’

Florian allowed himself a small smile. "It was the right thing to do," he said simply.

"The right thing to do, hm?"

Something in Heinz’s tone made Florian still. It wasn’t anger. It wasn’t doubt. But it was something. A subtle shift in the air, a pressure he couldn’t quite place.

"...Yes?"

Heinz didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he watched him, eyes steady, unreadable. Then, with the same measured calm, he asked, "How did you escape?"

Florian’s breath hitched.

’So that’s what this is about.’

"I know someone helped you," Heinz continued, "but there were at least fifty rogues there, aside from their two leaders..."

"O-Oh... uh..."

Florian hesitated. He could lie. He wanted to lie. But Heinz was sharp—like Lucius. Perceptive. He would know.

So Florian swallowed hard and told the truth.

"I... made them think I wanted to be intimate with their leader, Charles." The words tasted bitter in his mouth, but he pushed through. "I convinced him I couldn’t do it with the others around, so I asked him to send them out. After that, I had Levi—the rogue who helped me—show me another exit, and I escaped through there."

Heinz tilted his head slightly, his gaze unwavering. "And as you mentioned earlier, you stabbed Charles to get away?"

Florian let out an awkward laugh. "Y-Yeah."

"And you’re okay?"

"Eh?" The question caught him off guard. "...Yes?"

Heinz hummed again, still watching him.

And watching.

And watching.

The weight of his stare pressed against Florian like an unseen force, coiling around his ribs.

’What is this?’

Heinz had never given him more than a passing glance before. Never spared him a second look. And now, here he was, holding Florian in his gaze, dissecting him in a way that made his skin prickle.

But why?

Florian couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. That there was more to this conversation than Heinz was letting on.

And yet—so far, nothing they had spoken about seemed pressing enough to warrant dragging him into a private meeting at this hour.

Then, without any warning or further explanation, Heinz leaned back and said—

"Then, I suppose we can begin."

Florian’s stomach twisted.

’Begin?’

"Pardon? Begin?" Florian echoed, tilting his head slightly, his brows knitting together in confusion.

Heinz didn’t respond right away. His crimson eyes flickered to Florian before shifting away, scanning the dimly lit room as if contemplating something beyond the walls. He leaned back against his chair with an air of effortless authority, yet there was something unsettling in the way he moved—slow, deliberate, as though savoring the moment before striking.

Then, finally, he spoke.

"Who are you?"

Florian blinked. "Huh?"

"I’m asking—who are you?" Heinz repeated, his voice unnervingly calm, each word measured and precise.

’What does he even mean?’

"I... don’t understand the question, Your Majesty," Florian said carefully. He kept his tone neutral, but his mind was already racing. Was this a test? Some kind of strange mind game? He combed through every interaction he’d had with Heinz, searching for any possible reason for this question—but nothing came to mind.

Then, Heinz’s gaze sharpened.

A flicker of red danced in his irises, glowing faintly against the warm candlelight. The shadows in the room seemed to stretch, curling toward the king like they answered only to him. With an almost lazy motion, Heinz placed a firm hand on the desk, fingers curling against the polished wood.

"You," he said, his voice a quiet blade of certainty, "are not Florian."

Florian felt his breath hitch.

’What the hell?’

For a moment, the words didn’t register. They couldn’t register.

Had he heard that correctly?

No—he must have misheard. That wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible.

’How could he know?’

His pulse quickened, thudding against his ribs like a warning drum.

No. He had to stay calm. He had to play it cool.

"How could I... not be myself, Your Majesty?" Florian asked, forcing a chuckle. His voice felt steady enough, but the weight of Heinz’s stare made it harder to breathe.

The king didn’t laugh. He didn’t even blink.

"Stop lying before I lose my patience."

The air in the room changed, thickening like a storm about to break.

Heinz raised a hand—just slightly—but Florian flinched.

"You saw what I did to Arthur," Heinz continued, his voice eerily level. "So I suggest you talk." His fingers curled slightly, a quiet reminder of the power he held. "I have been observing you for the past week. You changed—"

"It’s because of my—"

"Don’t."

The single word cut through the space between them like a blade.

Heinz’s voice remained even, but something in it carried a sharp, unspoken warning. "Don’t even mention that accident. I know what happened after it, and your sudden change was not part of it."

A chill slid down Florian’s spine.

’What?’

The room felt smaller now. The walls felt closer.

Heinz wasn’t making sense.

Me changing was not part of it?

’What did that even mean?’

Florian’s lips parted, but the words caught in his throat as realization slammed into him like a crashing wave—

The king’s eyes locked onto his, unblinking and unwavering.

"It’s impossible that you’re like me," Heinz said, his voice quieter now—almost thoughtful, yet laced with something dark.

Like... him?

"Because if you were," Heinz continued, rising from his chair with slow, deliberate steps, "you wouldn’t even dare to look me in the eye."

The room tilted. Or maybe it was just Florian. His body reacted before his mind could, taking an instinctive step back.

Heinz didn’t stop advancing.

The air between them crackled with unspoken tension, pressing down on Florian like a physical weight. The scent of candle smoke and aged parchment clung to the space between them, but all Florian could focus on was the sound of Heinz’s footsteps, slow and methodical, as if savoring every inch of the distance he was closing.

Heinz loomed over him now, his presence suffocating.

"Not when I’m the one who had you executed."