[He stops at the crest of the bridge, just looking at her back as she stands against the railing, cast against uneven shadow. Vincent’s brow pinches, and he allows himself a slow exhale — fogged breath coils up, reaching just above his hat before it disappears into the night air.]

It hardly sounds much like denial to me, Miss Monts. It appears that you know exactly what you are — just afraid to accept it.

[He steps forward, pressing gloved hands against the railing, peering down into dark water. His own reflection is just a blearily half-formed thing staring back up at him.]

In any case, some say Great Ones are purveyors of truth. The deepest, most unnatural kind. Careful you don’t spend too long in my presence else you go mad.

[He looks at her, offering a small smile; his turn at levity, or some attempt at it.]

What’s so wrong about being what you are? Other than I’m not sure that half of you likes me very much.