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almostwisegalaxy · 1 month ago

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What does hell look like for both of us

Geum Seongje x Twisted fem!reader

Dark romance. Yeah. This bastard finally got what he deserved. Not to be romanticized. If you see a reference to a featherweight somewhere made with it. She's a homeless junkie who that's alimente not well.. She's got to be 50 kilos as well. ಠ⁠_⁠ʖ⁠ಠ

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Behind the gutted gas station, where the dead neon lights hadn't flickered in years, a gust of wind rustled plastic bags caught in the drainage grates. The air was heavy with grime and defeat. Junkies roamed like stray dogs between the empty pumps, looking for a fix, a light, a shred of a glance. Geum Seongje was coming out of a fight. Nothing unusual. He'd bitten, ripped, punched, until silence replaced the screams. But that night, it had left him empty. Nothing. No exhilaration. Just that nauseating emptiness clinging to his gut like fuel oil.

He was walking away, thinking of nothing, ready to snuff out a cigarette against his tongue just to feel something, when he saw Y/N. On her knees.

In front of a dealer with a wide smile and dead eyes. She was begging. Her voice broke into a seeping murmur, an almost loving sigh: "You said you wouldn't forget me, right? I've been good today, wanna see? Just give me a little..."

Her hand trembled as she grazed the guy's jeans, like one touches a cracked idol, a rotten god. The dealer looked at her like one looks at an overturned trash can in a garden. He was proud. He stood tall. Superior. As if the disgust surrounding him made him cleaner.

Seongje stopped. Intrigued, at first. He thought about making fun of it, taking a picture, posting it on a forum, to make the others at the Union laugh. But it didn't make him laugh. Not really. He felt a dark heat rising within him. Contempt. Disgust. And then something more troubling. A violent urge. Not for sex. For destruction. He wanted to destroy, again. Destroy her. Destroy him.

He hit the dealer without a word. Just like that. A punch to the throat, dry, surgical. The other choked, falling like a puppet on a severed string. Seongje hadn't even looked. No hatred. No justice. Just the brutal, clean gesture.

He turned on his heel, ready to leave, when he heard her: "Mister?"

He frowned.

"I can last a long time. You can give me the stuff afterwards. I'm not annoying, I swear."

Her voice was destroyed. Nothing but breath and humiliation. A dead voice that still moved.

He turned around slowly. She was looking at him with those empty eyes, shining with craving, hunger, terror. She took him for another dealer. Another solution. Another key.

"You disgust me."

She didn't even hear him. Or she didn't care. She almost crawled towards him, whispering words usually said in a bed, but without warmth. Without meaning. Just there, laid out like pieces of stale bread on a grimy table.

"I'm gentle. You'll like me, I can bend however you want. Come on... you're not like the others, are you? You want me to do it well, I can. I've learned. I can..."

"You're disgusting."

It just came out. Not a judgment. A statement. He looked at her like one looks at a ruin. Not out of disgust. But out of a desire to set it on fire. She had no pride. And that fascinated him. Like an already broken sculpture that one would want to smash even more.

Then she screamed. A long scream, as if her insides were cracking. She pounded her fist, clawed at the air, cried without tears.

"I'm hurting, damn it, don't you understand?! You don't know what it's like! You've never needed, never! I don't want to be cold anymore, I don't want to tremble anymore! You have no right to look at me like that!"

He pushed her away. A sudden gesture. She fell, slid on the asphalt. Her cheek scraped against the ground.

She had a seizure. A real one. Not a tantrum. The withdrawal was crushing her. Her arms trembled. Her body folded in on itself like a wet cloth. She gasped, clawed at the ground with her nails. Then she started to cry. A muffled, shameful sob. Not a complaint. A confession.

And he saw. The marks.

The old marks on her arms. Not hidden. Not justified. Just there. As if she was saying: "I've already lost."

He stared at her. For a long time. He crouched down. Took her face in his hands. He said nothing. He looked at her like a kid looks at an animal crushed on the road. Fascinated. Disgusted. Liking it.

Then he picked her up. Without knowing why. Not out of pity. He didn't know that word. He lifted her like a sack, threw her over his shoulder. She was light as a promise never kept.

He didn't know where he was taking her. He didn't care.

But one thing was clear. He had found her. His new toy.

Not prey. Not love. An obsession. Something to destroy gently, slowly. Something that would take up all his time. That would fill his nights with demons, his thoughts with sweet poison.

He was short of breath. Like after a good drug. Like after a broken bone under his hand.

But it wasn't a fight.

It was worse.

It was her.

And since that night, he's come back. Again. And again. Without understanding. Just to feel that prick under his skin. That soft burn that says: "You're still alive, you bastard."

---

It was raining that day. A sticky, gooey, ugly rain. The kind that clings to your clothes like a dirty hand. He came back, for no reason, no purpose. Just because he needed to. Like you need to smoke after a cigarette. Like you need to bleed after a scar. He was there, and so was she.

Y/N. Crouched under a filthy awning, chewing gum stuck to her sole, acidic sweat under her armpits. She shivered, disheveled, exhausted, with that disconnected look. The look of a beaten animal still waiting to be caressed.

"You wanna pay for my fix? Or you want my ass? It's the same."

She said it in a neutral, mechanical tone, without provocation. Not a word too many, not a charming sigh. Just a price. A routine. He looked at her for a long time. It was perfect. It was sublime. She was his opposite. His mirror. A slower fall. Dirtier.

He smiled, a deathly grimace, like a guy watching a fly drown in vomit. A sound came from his throat, halfway between laughter and boredom.

"Ass, drugs... You think that pays? You think it's a trade, huh? Cheap junkie."

He leaned towards her, his breath warm and mocking.

"But you already signed. It's not a price you owe. It's your carcass, every day."

He added nothing. He placed a plastic bag in front of her. Inside: a tuna sandwich, a packet of chips, a donut. She grimaced. As if it were shit. And yet, she ate. Her hands trembled. Her mouth dirty. He watched her. Fascinated. She was as addicted to food as she was to crack. It was funny. Ugly and funny. The path to her soul went through her empty stomach.

One evening, he asked:

"What's your name?"

She stared at him, eyes narrowed, brain too slow.

"It's dead. I'll give it to you when you deserve it."

He laughed. A real laugh. He thought: this one, she deserves to be broken properly. Slowly. Gently. From the inside.

Then there was that night, under the bridge, when she told him a memory. She was six years old. Her mother had locked her in a bathroom for three days while she was screwing a guy in the bedroom. She had eaten a roll of toilet paper to survive. She said it like reciting a recipe. Without filter. Without shame. He didn't know if it was true. But he knew he was the only one who had heard it. And that was all that mattered.

One evening, she kissed him on the cheek. A small gesture. Nothing. But in his head, something had broken. A string. An attachment. He didn't understand. He didn't like it. It tightened his stomach. It made him warm. It made him want to bite.

He thought of her constantly. Her raspy voice. Her dirty hands. Her too-thin legs. He wanted her to be his. Not to love her. No. To possess her. To contain her. To crush her in the palm of his hand.

He couldn't stand knowing she was with others anymore. Those other guys. Those dealers, those scumbags, those mouths full of her saliva. She sold herself for a line, for a trace, for a sigh. It drove him crazy. Not jealous. Sick.

One evening, he arrived too late. Y/N had been hit. Her face was swollen. A black eye. A busted lip. She laughed. She said: "I didn't let him. I bit his cheek."

Seongje didn't answer. He knew who it was. He knew where to find him. He went there. And he massacred him. No screams. No anger. Just silence and blood. He washed his hands in a puddle. Then he came back. Y/N snuggled against him. Like a child. He breathed in her smell. Grime, powder, unrinsed shampoo. She was beautiful. Dirty, tired. But beautiful. With a strange beauty that attracts monsters.

He was one. And she knew it.

He masturbated thinking of her. Not naked. Vomiting. Screaming. Collapsing. He imagined her tears on his chest. Her claws on his skin. And he came shamelessly.

He didn't understand. He didn't love. He consumed. Like her. But she needed powder. He needed her screams.

He would watch her sleep sometimes. Not long. Just long enough to want to steal a piece of her. A tooth. An eyelid. A memory. He thought of her like a drug. Worse than anything she snorted. She made him dependent. She filled a void he didn't know he had. She made him believe he still existed.

He told himself: "I'll save her. But in my own way." That is, make her unable to flee. Give her just enough so she wouldn't die. But never enough for her to leave. He wanted her to beg, to cry, to hate him. To love him. To confuse him with Benefactor , with the dope, with the end of the world.

He wanted every sigh she let out to be an offering. A trace. Another padlock around her throat. She was no longer Y/N. She was his thing. His project. His slow destruction.

He offered her meals. But never drugs. He wanted her to need him. Not to get high. To survive. He wanted the pain of withdrawal to be associated with his face. For her to think of him when she trembled.

She resisted. She rebelled sometimes. She screamed. She said she hated him. That she would kill him. And he smiled. He hit her sometimes. Just enough for her to understand that he could. But not too much. Not yet.

One day, she told him:

"You're worse than the drugs. You infiltrate, you dig. And then you laugh."

He didn't deny it. He didn't know how to lie. He knew how to manipulate, yes. But he never lied. It wasn't necessary. She was already his.

But here's the thing.

He hadn't realized he was getting attached to a mask. A mirage. Y/N wasn't just a rag. She was playing. She was observing. She was testing. She was learning his habits, his rituals. She was noting his flaws. She was remembering his schedule.

And the best part?

He wouldn't get out of this anytime soon.

He had become attached to an illusion. And that illusion, one day, would break him harder than anything he had ever hit.

---

He didn't know why he'd come back. Not really. It wasn't love. He didn't know that word. It wasn't desire either. Not true desire. It was a craving. An emptiness. A kind of parasite in his gut, pounding at his insides, saying: "Go see her." And he went to see her. Again. Y/N. His rag. His poison. His sewer princess.

It was still raining. One of those thick, greasy, almost living rains. It streamed down his clothes, dripped down his neck, clung to his skin like forgotten cum. He walked, jaw clenched, hands in his pockets. He thought of her. Her broken-doll appearance. Her split lip. Her smell of misery.

And he saw her. Again. Huddled near the metro entrance. Too thin. Too much makeup. Negotiating with a guy. Old. Disgusting. Drool at the corner of his lips. She smiled. A mechanical smile. A survival smile. A goddamn grimace that ravaged something inside him.

Seongje saw red.

He didn't yell. He didn't charge. He approached slowly. And then he struck. The old man. Right in the temple. He fell like a sack of shit. Y/N jumped, eyes wide, but not truly surprised. She just said:

"Damn, did you snap again?"

He didn't look at her. He just grabbed her arm. Hard. Too hard. And he walked. Dragged her behind him. Like a dog. She protested. Not too much. Just enough to seem like resistance. He said nothing. He walked. Almost fuming with rage. His heart was in his throat, and his head was full of screams. Not against her. Against everything. Against himself. Against this need to keep her, to possess her, to tear her apart.

He took her to that two-room apartment. He had rented it, paid for it, cleaned it. Furnished it. Not much. Just a bed. A table. A shower. Clean sheets. Stain-free walls. Curtains without holes. A kitchenette. Silence. A nest. A prison.

Y/N entered. She stopped. Mouth slightly open. Eyes wide. A laugh escaped her. Not mocking. Almost wonder-struck.

"Holy shit... You did this for me?"

She spun around. Touched the walls. Hopped. Smiled. He watched her. And suddenly, it struck him. She wasn't listening to him. She never listened. She was dancing in HIS gesture. In HIS proof. She didn't hear his anger, his rage, his need to say: "YOU'RE MINE."

He slammed the door. Hard. She flinched.

"ARE YOU GOING TO STOP SMILING, DAMN IT?!"

She froze.

"You think this is a game? You think I'm doing this to watch you play princess? WHO THE HELL ARE YOU?! WHO ARE YOU TO DESERVE THIS?!"

He grabbed her by the shoulders. Shook her. She whimpered. He saw red again.

"You want to die in the street? You want to get fucked by rats again? You think I'm going to watch you spread your legs for a hit?!"

"THIS ISN'T YOUR HOME, BITCH! I'm the one paying, I'm the one who brought you here, I'm the one who pulled you out of your shit! You, you were getting FUCKED AGAINST A WALL FOR A LINE! And now you're playing princess?! What do you take me for?! You think this is Disneyland?!"

He screamed, the veins in his neck ready to burst. He grabbed her by the hair, slammed her against the wall. Not too hard. Just enough for her to feel the difference between her street and what he was offering her. She stared at him. Mute. He shook his head, mad with rage.

"You're going to listen to me, damn it. You're not bringing your dealers here. You're not selling yourself. You're not disappearing. You're not going to make me spin like shit, OK? YOU'RE MINE NOW. You breathe because I want you to. You eat because I feed you. You sleep because I give you the right. You're my project, my property, MY FUCKING THING!"

He spat on the ground, as if to exorcise his own weakness. He hit her. A slap. Loud. Painful. Then another. She collapsed onto the mattress. He approached, panting, looking at her thin, broken body. She trembled.

She trembled. Tears in her eyes. Silent. A small broken thing. He saw her back away. Back against the wall. Hands crossed. She murmured:

"You scare me..."

And then, everything changed.

He felt guilt. Real guilt. That filth that clings to the skin like dried blood. He hated it. His stomach twisted. His throat tightened. He wanted to say sorry. He didn't know how. He didn't know how to do it.

He sat down. Against the door. Breathed hard. He sweated with chills. Head between his knees. Heart in disarray.

"I just want you to stay. For you not to die. I just want to keep you, OK?"

And Y/N, she watched. Still with her back to the wall. Eyes shining. But not with fear. No. With pleasure. With triumph. A small sadistic spark in her gaze.

Y/N'S POV

She thought:

What a joke.

"You scare me"...

Ah, you poor fool. Punching bag. He'd believed it. Every word. Every tear. He'd swallowed it like a kid swallows a monster story. He'd gotten on his knees. Touching. Pathetic. And so easy.

Idiot.

He walked the walk. Like all the others. But he's better. He hits better. He screws better. He bleeds better. And he even knows how to find an apartment. Hahaha.

He's not like the bums in the street. He wants to save you. And that's his weakness.

She licked her lips.

He's already mine. I'm going to break him. Slowly. He thinks he dominates me, that dog. But I have the leash. I have fangs under my tongue.

She approached softly. Knees bent. Silent. She squatted in front of him.

"You're different. You're not like the others. You don't disgust me."

He raised his head. Looked at her. A flame, a doubt, an opening. She took advantage. She slid her hand against his cheek. Soft. Controlled.

"You're the only one who's ever looked at me as anything but a f***hole."

A lie.

"You might be crazy, but... you have a heart. It beats. It's dirty. But it beats."

Manipulation.

And he believed it. He believed in that tenderness. In that closeness. His heart tightened. He took her in his arms. Hard. Too hard. As if she could disappear.

He wanted her to love him.

He wanted her to look at him like a man. Not like a monster. He wanted her to think of him when she cried, not of the drugs. He wanted to be her fix.

But Y/N, she was already thinking ahead. She was thinking about how to wear him down. How to turn his rage against him. To make him implode from the inside.

She thought:

Damn, you're really pathetic. But I'll make you believe you're special. And you'll lick my feet while I strangle you from the inside.

I'm going to eat you up. I'm going to empty you. And when you have nothing left, I'll leave. Like a queen.

She closed her eyes, rested her head against his chest. Listened to his heartbeat. That rhythm of a beaten dog. She smiled. Faintly.

And murmured:

"Thank you..."

But she thought:

Die, asshole. Die of love. Die of craving.

---

A Few Weeks Later

He wouldn’t have known when it happened. Maybe the first time she came out of the bathroom, clean. Wet hair pulled back. Wearing a t-shirt too big for her, nothing underneath. Skin pale from water too hot. Eyes still hazy from a poorly hidden high. But he had seen her. REALLY seen her. And something snapped. A nerve. A vein. A boundary.

Seongje had never considered himself in love. That word was for the weak, the stupid, the teenagers. He wasn't that. He was something else. A rabid dog. A lost guy. But not in love. Not... on his knees. Yet he spent his days staring at her. Every movement. Every twitch. He devoured her with his eyes. Obsessed over her. She moved, he followed. She spoke, he memorized every word. And when she said nothing, he still heard her. The silence between them had become sexual, almost sticky.

Seongje wouldn’t have known how to say it out loud. But sometimes, when he looked at her, he felt afraid. Afraid of what he saw. Afraid of what she was becoming. Too real. Too alive. He had pulled her from the gutter. He had seen her shake, vomit, beg. And now she was smiling. She was glowing. Like a normal girl. Like a girl who could leave.

Y/N had caught on fast.

She dressed better now. Made sure her makeup was clean. Skin without sores. A cheap perfume that killed Seongje from the inside. Every time she got too close, he felt his cock harden in his jeans. And yet, she did nothing. She passed by. Brushed against him. Spoke softly. Looked at him with that half-childish, half-sadistic smile. And he caved.

Y/N no longer smelled like sweat, piss, dope. She started washing. Combing her hair. Even smiling differently. Clean nails. Clothes she bought, not scavenged. Simple dresses. But chosen.

And she was beautiful. Almost too much.

She touched him, too. When he was on edge, when he smelled heroin in her gaze, he exploded. He screamed. Broke things. Wanted to hit her, sometimes. Not out of sadism. Out of fear. Out of helplessness. And she, she would come. Press her cold hands against his chest. Kiss his neck. Gently. With that fake tenderness of a porn actress playing the sweet girlfriend.

— “Shhh... Look at me. I’m here. Calm down. You don’t need to scream. Just need me.”

And she was right. He calmed down. Every time. His whole body unraveled under her hands. When she placed her fingers on his shoulders, his arms, his chest, he felt like melting. Sometimes she undressed him with just a look. No need for sex. Just being there. Breathing near him. And he obeyed. Like a good dog.

He sometimes caught her, syringe in hand, ready to scream, ready to destroy everything. And she, she would come. Press her breasts against him. Put her mouth on his. Kissed him with a feverish hunger. Wet kisses. Slow. Almost loving. She panted in his ear:

— “You’re my guard dog. My man. My favorite poison. Let me... Just one last time, okay?”

He gave in. Always. And after, he locked himself alone in the bathroom. Fists clenched. Hating himself for loving her like that.

She had changed her look. Straightened hair. Tight clothes. Skirt. Little black top. A bit too sexy to go out. He panicked.

— “Where do you think you're going dressed like that?”

She smiled.

— “Nowhere. I do this for you. I want to be pretty for you. Isn’t that what you want?”

He didn’t answer. Swallowed hard. Hardened again under his jeans. And later, she started talking like him. Same insults. Same tone. Same dark looks.

— “Move it, asshole, you're annoying.”

He turned, ready to hit her. And he saw her laughing eyes. That disgusting game she played. She wanted to be him. Merge with him. Dissolve into his madness. He came that night just watching her sleep.

And he got used to it.

She had his same bark now. She repeated his insults like caresses. One day, she told him:

— “What do you think, asshole? That I need you?”

He burst out laughing. So did she. Then they fucked on the table, knocking over the pasta he had just cooked.

Afterward, she lit a cigarette and continued, softly:

— “You’re my guard dog. My emotional junkie. My fucking deranged teddy bear. And I’m your trash queen.”

He didn’t know what to say. He just laid his head on her stomach and breathed. Slowly. Deeply. As if she were his last breath of air.

And she felt it. She felt everything.

He was in total ecstasy. A junkie, yeah. But not for dope. Not for powder. Just for her. Her words. Her looks. Her silences. He waited for her slightest reactions like a dog waits for a bone.

***

Then there was that sentence. That moment.

They were sitting on the floor, backs to the wall. He smoked. She trembled. A nasty withdrawal. She said:

— “I’m not a project. I’m a wreck. And I need someone sick enough to love me... So, will you be the psycho who loves me?”

He felt pierced through. He said yes.

— “Yes, fuck. Of course. Whatever you want. Kill me if you want. But love me. Don’t leave.”

And she kissed him. For a long time. Deeply. Her tongue against his. Her mouth devouring him. No passion. No love. A mutual addiction. He put everything he couldn’t say into that kiss. His fears, his tenderness, his needs. She, she swallowed him whole.

And she came, silently, tasting his weakness. Tasting the pliable doll he had become.

***

One day, he went out. A meeting with The Union, Baek-jin’s gang. It dragged on. Too long. When he returned, she was waiting. Arms crossed. Frozen face.

— “Did you have fun with your whores?”

He blinked.

Confusion.

— “What?”

— “I saw you with them. Those two girls. Cute. Smiling. Eyeing you like you were their dealer.”

He growled. Raised his hands.

— “They’re gang members, Y/N. Stop acting jealous.”

— “Jealous? Jealous? Do I look like a normal chick to you? You think I won’t freak seeing you with other junkies? Huh? Got more girls you’re saving? How many projects you working on, you fucking asshole?!”

He exploded. Screamed. Threw a chair. Punched a wall. She stepped back. Pretended to be scared. He shouted:

— “SHUT UP! YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU’RE TALKING ABOUT! YOU’RE CRAZY!”

And she stepped back again, hands up. Eyes gleaming.

— “I’m crazy? I’m the crazy one now?!”

She burst into tears. Screamed. Then suddenly collapsed. On the floor. Convulsing. Screaming. A bad trip. Real or fake? He didn’t know. He ran to her.

— “Y/N?! Y/N fuck answer me!”

She thrashed. Screamed nonsense.

— “You left... You left... You left me... I don’t want... I don’t want you to leave…”

She trembled. Screamed. Tore her t-shirt. Scratched herself. He panicked. Held her. Tight. She foamed. Screamed. He cried. Really. Real tears. He shook.

— “I swear… I swear I don’t know them… I love you, fuck. You’re all I have. Don’t die. Don’t fucking die now…”

She calmed down after an hour. Slowly. Breathed hard. Laid her head against his chest. Whispered:

— “You’re my only refuge…”

He closed his eyes. And bled inside. Because he NEEDED to hear that. Because she had made him addicted. Because she was his poison. Because she had won.

She had made him dependent. Hooked on her. She had turned him inside out. And he loved her.

He loved her like a madman. Like a wreck. Like a dog.

He fell asleep with her in his arms. Breathing her scent. And he thought:

I’m dying. But I’m hers. And that’s all I have.

And she, in her sleep, smiled.

Another point for Y/N.

***

That night, she watched him sleep. Shirtless, tense body, clenched jaw even in sleep. He dreamt badly. She smiled.

In her pocket, she hid a small baggie. Gifted by an old contact – a remnant of her past, a temptation she had sworn off. But now, it was different: it wasn’t for her. It was for him.

The next morning, she woke him gently, naked under a t-shirt too big for Seongje.

— “I have a gift.”

He raised an eyebrow. He never understood her moods.

— “A real sign of trust. Want to try it with me? Just once.”

In the hollow of her palm, she revealed the powder. Fine, pure. White as a promise.

He turned pale.

— “Are you serious?”

— “It’s just… for me. For us.”

Her voice was soft. She placed her hand on his neck. She knew how to break him. He was afraid, but looked at her like a beaten puppy. He wanted to love her so badly, he was ready to betray himself.

She had won.

They lay down. She rolled, cut, prepared. Guided his movements. He trembled, but let her do it.

When he inhaled, it was like his world imploded. Silence thickened. Time dilated. And she watched him melt, slowly, as if he emptied himself completely.

Y/N leaned in, whispered in his ear:

— “You’re mine now. For real.”

And she laughed.

***

The next day, he felt dirty. He said nothing. Avoided her eyes.

She, she was radiant. She had infected him. That was her plan.

She had converted him to her hell.

He wanted to save me. Now, he’ll have to save himself from me. Too late.

---

Here is the full English translation of your powerful and emotionally intense narrative, with "Emma" replaced by Y/N as requested:

---

POV SEONGJE

He felt like he was constantly walking on eggshells with her.

Him. Seongje. The guy whose mere presence could silence entire rooms. The one no one dared interrupt, the one people avoided even when he said nothing. The one whose single glance could make men the size of three wardrobes back off. That guy—that guy—was now lowering his eyes in front of a lost girl, holding his breath whenever she frowned.

A cosmic slap to his ego. A dirty irony that clung to him like cold sweat.

She lost it over nothing.

An unanswered message. A glance that lingered too long on a waitress. A conversation with Baek-jin she didn’t like.

And that was it. The sighs, the sharp silences, the midnight meltdowns. He tried talking to her, understanding her, reassuring her. But she always came back to the same place: suspicion. That slow, steady venom.

Nothing was normal anymore.

She freaked out over nothing. All the time. Every day. A dish left in the wrong place, a message left on read, a glance too long at some other chick. Even Baek-jin—she wanted his head. Just because he’d clapped him on the shoulder. Because he dared laugh with him.

And him? He was there… holding his breath every time she opened her mouth.

Y/N wasn’t jealous.

Y/N watched.

And that’s what drove him mad: he wanted to believe her when she smiled. When she rested her head on his shoulder. When she came to pick him up at HQ with that soft voice and wide eyes like bottomless wells. When she cooked for him, dancing barefoot on the tiles, like life could be sweet, like she wanted to make him happy.

And every time he started to relax, to believe in them, she’d drop a single line.

A poison.

— “Who were you with for those two hours, huh?”

— “You don’t want me, is that it? You’re thinking of someone else?”

— “You think I’m too dumb to see how she looks at you?”

Always followed by a bite. A doubt. A sweet, sharp kind of cruelty.

He felt drained. Driven by her. Controlled like a fucking puppet. And the worst part? No one around dared say a word.

This wasn’t love—it was a hostage situation with morning kisses.

She cooked for him sometimes. When she felt like it. She’d put effort into it like she was being graded. And then, right after:

— “You didn’t even say thank you. Were you thinking of her when you ate that?”

Her? Who the fuck was "her"?

But he didn’t dare ask. Afraid to set off another fire.

She’d come pick him up from meetings. Storm down like a maniac if he didn’t answer.

— “Where were you? Fucking one of your Union groupies, is that it?”

She’d shout. In front of everyone. Even the guys didn’t dare meet his eyes after that.

There’d be silence. A thick, awkward quiet. And her… she’d cling to his arm like nothing had happened. Like she’d just exercised a basic right.

***

A few days later

Outside The Union hideout, late afternoon

Baek-jin is leaning against a wall, cigarette hanging from his lips, looking exaggeratedly relaxed. Seongje has just walked over after defusing another public scene caused by Y/N. She almost went off on a girl for looking at him.

Baek-jin speaks without turning his head.

— “She still barking, your bitch?”

Seongje swallows hard, tense, hands stuffed into his tracksuit pockets.

— “Shut the fuck up, Baek-jin. Not the time.”

Baek-jin smirks, takes a long drag.

— “No, but seriously. You can’t control her anymore. It’s funny. The guy they used to call ‘Wolf’—now lowering his head because his girl throws fits at every skirt in sight.”

He stands up, slowly walking over, cigarette dangling between two fingers. His voice lowers. Becomes sharp.

— “Get your girl on a leash, Seongje. She’s screwing with my business. And you know I don’t tolerate that.”

Seongje finally looks up. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes.

— “She hasn’t hurt anyone.”

Baek-jin raises his eyebrows.

— “Not yet. But she’s close. She stares at people like she’s ready to stab someone. And you? You just sigh? What—lost your bite?”

A brutal silence. Baek-jin steps closer.

— “Forgot who put you back on your throne?”

His voice gets harder.

— “Need me to remind you you’re no king here? You’re just my well-trained dog. So if your animal starts biting… I’ll be the one to put it down.”

A chill runs up Seongje’s spine. He says nothing, jaw clenched. Baek-jin leans in.

— “You were always good at unleashing violence. But love? Not your thing. Look what she’s done to you. Look at yourself.”

He steps back, sneering.

— “Pathetic.”

Baek-jin drops his cigarette, crushes it underfoot, walks off. Seongje stands still. Clenched fists. Knuckles white. But he doesn’t move. He swallows his rage. For now.

He loved her. He clung to her like a drowning man to wreckage.

But deep down, it was eating him alive. He felt it.

***

He comes home early that day. For once. No fights. No deals. No meetings. He even picked up noodles—her favorite kind. A dumb gesture. A couple’s thing. A rare, fragile kindness.

But the room is empty.

He sits. Waits. Smokes two cigarettes. Then gets up. Starts rummaging—not really looking. Just habit. A born paranoiac.

And there it is. Under a cushion. Poorly hidden. Too poorly hidden to be a real secret. More like a trap. Or a test.

A notebook.

Black. Worn. Chewed-up corners. He recognizes it. Thought it was just an old journal.

He opens it.

First page: a sketch. Sloppy. Him, with a syringe in his neck. Crow wings. A torn heart.

And then pages and pages of words. Not love notes. No. Twisted things. Ugly thoughts. Dry-inked screams.

> “He thinks he loves me. He devours me. He wants to own me. He’s a fucking emotional parasite, nothing more.”

“He wants to play hero but he’s more toxic than my dealer.”

“I fake it. Every day. And he gets off on it. On my broken doll act. He wants me to bleed for him.”

> “Seongje smothers me. I can’t stand his stare, the way he needs to know everything. He thinks it’s love, but he’s choking me like a leash. One day I’ll gouge his eyes out so he stops watching me.”

> “He touches me like a kid discovering a squashed frog. Fascinated. Gross. Curious. I want to puke when he says ‘I love you.’”

> “He fucks me like a desperate dog but wants me to love him like a poet.”

> “I fake everything. Always. Except when I force myself to smile so he won’t suspect. He’s so dumb, he thinks I need him. But he’s the addict. He’s mine. I could get him to jump off a roof if I begged just right.”

> “Seongje = worm disguised as a king. No balls. Just obsession.”

> “This is love, Geum-style: a broken brain and a cock always hard. Always ready to fuck you up.”

Every word. A shock.

Every line. An intimate betrayal.

She had dissected him. Observed him. Stripped him to the bone. She’d written things she’d never dare say out loud. Things she’d screamed in her rages, that he’d thought were exaggerations.

They weren’t. They were planned. Calculated.

He stood frozen. A long time. Notebook in hand. Breath shallow. Then he heard her come in.

She was whistling.

Like nothing had happened.

And something inside him broke.

Not a crack.

A fracture. Clean. Deep. Like a dam splitting open.

He stood up.

Watched her come in, smiling—and didn’t even think.

He threw the notebook at her feet. Hard.

— “Explain. Now.”

She smiled at first. Thought it was a joke.

Then she saw his eyes.

She stepped back.

— “You… you’re going through my stuff now? Wow. Real respectful.”

He stepped closer.

— “You left me no choice.”

He grabbed her arms. Hard. Too hard. Slammed her against the wall. His face inches from hers.

— “You write that I touch you like a dog. That I smother you. That you fake everything. That you’ll gouge my eyes out?!”

She whimpered. Denied. Cried. Screamed “I love you! I love you!”

He didn’t care.

He shook her.

— “You wrote you could drive me to suicide. You wrote I have no balls. That you’d make me jump off a roof!”

He saw himself becoming the old him. Before her. Before the addiction. He wanted to hit her. To make her feel his pain. But he stopped. Just in time.

Not out of kindness.

Out of fear—of himself.

She collapsed to the floor. Screamed. Sobbed. Twisted the narrative to play victim. But her tears rang false. And now, he knew it.

She was lying. Again.

Later. Silence. A sticky, sick calm. Seongje sitting on the bed. Nothing left to yell. Just this feeling of being hollowed out. Like she’d drained all the blood from his veins.

Then she came back. With a piece of paper.

She read aloud.

— “You locked me up for three days when I was in withdrawal.”

— “You fucked me without asking if I was even really there, really conscious.”

— “You hit me. Even if it ‘wasn’t hard.’ Even if you said sorry.”

— “You control everything. You want to know where I go, who I’m with. You’re paranoid. Sick. You scare me.”

— “You told your mom I was just a whore.

You made me bleed. You insulted me. You spat on me.

You said I was only good for moaning.

You still think about your ex.

You don’t want to love me. You want to own me.”

She was lying. A little. Exaggerating. A lot.

But some lines… hit home.

And she ended it, voice raw, trembling, almost tender:

— “And despite all that, I love you. Can you imagine my pain?”

A shiver.

Not of anger.

Of fear.

He felt his heart slam against his ribs. Something filthy rising from his gut. Not nausea. Realization.

She wasn’t his victim.

She was his tormentor.

And she knew exactly what she was doing.

He saw every smile again. Every night spent together. Every bit of tenderness offered like a gift. And he understood: she only ever showed him what she wanted him to see. Nothing more.

She wasn’t broken.

She was programmed to manipulate.

And she’d won.

Because he’d fallen in love with an image. A mirage.

Y/N wasn’t a wounded lover.

Y/N was a poison—taken drop by drop.

And he hadn’t seen the worst yet.

---

Y/N was becoming more and more paranoid. More and more. She no longer settled for just crises. She invented the reasons.

Everything was good to test his reaction. She was playing a game. And Seongje struggled within rules she constantly changed.

She changed her perfume. A detail. Almost nothing. But not for him.

***

One morning, she came out of the bathroom, towel around her hips, wet hair, and a new scent clinging to her skin. Not the one he knew, not the one he had learned to associate with her sheets, with her kidneys, with their life together. A woodier, harsher scent. A man's note. A man's perfume.

Seongje said nothing. He watched her pass by, a knot in his stomach. He sniffed her like an animal tracking a lie. But she didn’t flinch. She acted as if nothing was wrong. Light dance, slow movements. She served him coffee. He didn’t touch it.

Two days later, she came home late. Too late. She almost staggered, but not from alcohol. Just... blurry. Cold. Different.

She leaned toward him, kissed him on the lips. He still smelled that strange scent. She sat on the couch and silently lit a cigarette.

— Where were you?

She shrugged.

— I went for a walk. I needed air.

He bit his cheek, stared at the floor. Then, after a long silence:

— Did you sleep with someone?

— "Do you think I need to answer you?"

She burst out laughing. A broken laugh. Joyless. Then she stared at him, long.

— You left me. For too long. I was cold. That’s all.

Her voice was flat. Her gaze empty. As if she were talking about the weather. As if it didn’t matter.

Something broke inside him, again. He stood up, heart in shambles.

— That was a joke, right? You love me. You love me, right?

He approached, took her by the nape and kissed her. Wildly. Almost violently. She didn’t move. She let it happen. Inert. A body without response. A body from the past. And that silence was worse than a scream.

***

Days passed. Heavier and crazier.

Then he noticed it. That gesture she made. Often. Too often.

Her hand resting on her belly. Not really voluntary. Unconscious. Protective. First once. Then twice. Ten. Twenty. Always the same touch. Like a timid, automatic caress. And Seongje saw. Understood.

She was pregnant.

He said nothing. Not right away. But he searched. Again.

And found the bag. The pharmacy bag.

Vitamins. Folic acid. Iron. Omega 3. Nothing trivial. Nothing insignificant.

He entered the bathroom. Threw the sachet on the floor.

— What’s wrong with you? Besides being a junkie, you’re anemic?

She came out, hair messy, a t-shirt too big on her back, and looked at him without answering. She understood.

— Is that it? You...

She cut him off.

— You guessed all by yourself, little genius?

She smiled. A split smile. Cruel.

Seongje felt the ground give way. He didn’t know whether to cry or scream.

— Is it mine?

And then, the world tilted.

Her face changed.

— Excuse me?

She stared at him as if he had just called her a “whore” in front of her mother.

— You’re asking me that? After all I’ve endured?!

Her voice rose. Suddenly.

— DO YOU THINK I’M WHO?! HUH?! A STREET SLUT? YOU THINK I SPREAD MY LEGS FOR ANYONE?!

He wanted to answer. She didn’t let him. She threw a lamp against the wall. Screamed. Punched the walls with her fists. Then slammed the door.

She disappeared for a week. No news. No messages. The void.

When she came back, she was different. Darker. Hollow eyes, sharp cheekbones. She reeked of drugs, night, and pain.

He was sitting, waiting for her. He had prepared words. But seeing her, everything collapsed.

— Where were you?

She looked up at him, didn’t answer.

— You don’t have the right to leave like that. What the hell are you doing? You’re pregnant, damn it!

She laughed. A hollow laugh. Bottomless.

He approached, tried to take her by the shoulders.

— Don’t touch me.

He insisted. She grabbed a bottle. And smashed it on his head.

The glass flew. Blood flowed. And Seongje fainted.

***

When he woke up, the pain was sharp, pulsating. His forehead sticky, crusted with dried blood. He tried to move. His wrists burned. Tied. To the radiators. With a leather belt.

The light was dim. The air heavy with a harsh scent. Her scent. Their apartment. Blood.

And her voice. Soft. Almost sung.

— Look at your father. He’s already dead, but he doesn’t know it yet.

He opened his eyes slightly. She was there. Sitting opposite. Unmade-up. Hair disheveled. In a nightshirt.

She stared at her belly. She spoke to it. To that embryo. That future.

Seongje tried to speak. Nothing came out. His tongue was thick. His throat dry. The metallic taste of blood on his lips.

And she looked at him. Finally. Like an entomologist watching an insect. Curious. Detached. Almost amused.

— You’re not so cocky now, huh?

She approached. Slowly. Their faces just inches apart. He felt her breath. Warm. Sweet. Nauseating.

— You know what I realized?

She placed a finger on his cheek, slowly.

— That you like to suffer. You like it when I humiliate you. It turns you on.

He shivered. With fear. And something else. Shame. A dirty shame.

— You like me to tie you up. You like being my dog.

She straightened up. Took off her nightshirt. Naked. With disturbing ease.

— Even now, with your blood flowing, you still have an erection, you filthy bastard.

She laughed. A deep laugh. Soft. Inhuman.

— You think you have the power. But you never did. From day one. I’m the one holding your leash.

She crouched in front of him. Caressed his hair, chin, chest.

— You’ll have to love me twice as much now. Because there will be two of us hating you if you mess up.

A silence. Long. Sticky.

— "You’ve always been beautiful when you suffer."

He tried to speak. His throat was dry.

— "Y/N… what are you doing…"

She tilted her head, curious. Like a child in front of an insect.

— "I was wondering… how long it would take you to beg. To cry. To tell me you love me."

She came closer. Slowly. The knife slid over his cheek. Gently. Not to hurt. To mark. She was laying down her domination like a filthy caress.

— "Do you still think I’m a victim? Huh, Seongje?"

She climbed on him. Sat on his thighs. He felt her warmth, her scent, her hair brushing him. And he shivered. With fear. Shame. And a twisted desire.

— "You’ve always liked that. Being dominated. That’s your thing, right?"

She slowly opened her shirt. He shivered. Not from the cold. From her. She took her time. Savored every second. Her breath on his neck. Her weight. Her tongue on his ear.

— "You think I’m the crazy one. But you’re the junkie. Addicted to me. To my scent. To my screams. To my filth."

He closed his eyes. She blew harder.

— "Do you love me?"

He nodded. Almost against himself.

— "Say it."

— "I love you…"

She smiled. A magnificent and hideous grimace.

— "I’m going to teach you how to die for me."

She plunged the knife into the floor, between his legs. A sharp sound. He jumped. She laughed.

— "Were you scared?"

He didn’t answer.

She slapped him. Hard. A moist, painful slap.

— "I SAID: WERE YOU SCARED?!"

He screamed. A torn yes. She looked at him, panting. Triumphant. She had just broken him.

Then she kissed him. Mouth open. Deep. As if she wanted to devour him.

Their breath mingled. A sick heat enveloped them. He felt his tears fall, not knowing if he cried from pain, desire, or disgust with himself.

She whispered in his ear:

— "That’s love. Now, you’re mine. Forever."

And in that burning silence, he understood he would never escape this circle. She had taken everything. Even his fear belonged to her.

And he wanted more.

And she kissed him. Slowly. Like a sentence.

Seongje closed his eyes. A tear fell. Not pain. Not rage. Just… acceptance.

Y/N was his poison. And he was already contaminated.

..................................................................................

How Y/n sees Seongje :

₍⁠₍⁠ ⁠◝⁠(⁠　ﾟ⁠∀⁠ ﾟ⁠ ⁠)⁠◟⁠ ⁠⁾⁠⁾

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almostwisegalaxy · 1 month ago

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Not romantic. Mythological. You’re giving Persephone with blood on her mouth ᕕ༼ •̀︿•́༽ᕗ

#books #english literature #poetic #authors #poetry #reading #teenage dirtbag #writers on tumblr #feminine beauty #feminism #dark femininity

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almostwisegalaxy · 1 month ago

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Hi!! I was just wondering if you got my request a while ago about dad baku like the amazing sieun one you did?

Hey. Yes, I received the request, it's just that I'm very busy these days 🙏🏾

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almostwisegalaxy · 1 month ago

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Thanks to everyone else for getting me to these 500 reblogs!

My other writings:

kdrama x reader

Actor x reader

OC's x reader

Poem

Here

#500 reblogs #tumblr milestone #thank you #weak hero class x reader #weak hero class 1 #whc1 #whc2 #actor #actor x reader #oc x reader #sad poem #original poem #kdrama fic

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almostwisegalaxy · 1 month ago

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The Taste of Eternity on Mortal Lips

OC!Knight x fem!reader

Music for the atmosphere

..................................................................................

Rafael d’Ambroise: The Bloody Angel

He never sought glory. Only survival. An orphan torn from the ashes of a forgotten village, forged in violence, shaped by war. Victories ennobled him, but they gave him nothing. The Marquis d’Ambroise is just a shadow in armor, a man of iron and silence.

His gaze, black as the ashes he leaves behind, lingers on no one. He knows men's nature too well: they take, they betray, they forget. He is a sharpened instrument, honed to tear flesh and break wills. The Emperor calls him his Shield, but Rafael knows he is merely a sword to be discarded when dulled.

He is feared. Dreaded. But never loved. His name whispered in the corridors is followed only by silence and averted gazes. He knows it: he is respected for what he can do, not for who he is.

In the icy solitude of his quarters, he watches without sleeping. He no longer has dreams, only memories, and these are too heavy for him to bear other than with bitterness. But something undefined gnaws at his soul, a premonition he doesn't yet understand. As if history is about to deviate from its course…

Y/N of the Black Moon: The Forgotten Heir

She never had the right to exist. Her lineage was extinguished in the flames of imperial pyres, her ancestors erased from the archives, their throne broken and their memory buried. She should have been nothing but a faceless ghost, a rumor carried away by the wind.

But she lives. Hidden, erased, but very much alive.

Y/N grew up in the shadow of alleys where the sun never reaches. She was taught to walk silently, to disappear at the slightest movement. Not to draw attention. Prudence is a second skin, fear a silent companion. And yet, beneath the surface, beneath the reserve she cultivates, there is a fire she does not yet know how to name.

She knows she is the hope of those who have lost everything. A symbol of vengeance for those who whisper her name. But she didn't ask to be a symbol. She never wanted to carry the weight of revolutions on her frail shoulders. All she knows is that she is on borrowed time, and that every beat of her heart is a threat to the Empire.

She waits. Not out of fear, but because she knows her hour will come. She has seen the signs, heard the whispers of a future written in the stars.

The Ancestral Oracle: The Omen of Announced Ruin

They say that ruins sing, that the remains of a forgotten past whisper truths that only the desperate can hear.

In the crypts where time has no hold, a prophecy remains, etched in stone, repeated by those who have nothing left to lose:

"When the Warrior of Blood and the Child of Night unite their destinies, the Empire will falter. Steel will break under their embrace, and the sun will fade before the Black Moon. Their shadows will be drawn to each other, irresistible, and from their love will be born the dawn of a new world… or the ashes of an annihilated kingdom."

Rafael never believed in legends. Y/N never recognized herself in myths.

And yet, their shadows are already crossing.

---

The torches burn with a murky glow, casting shifting shadows on the stone walls. The smell of blood hangs in the air, acrid, insidious. Rafael stands motionless, his gaze fixed on the figure tied to the chair, her frail body bound by ropes pulled too tight. The woman says nothing. She doesn't even whimper. Only the sound of scarlet drops falling on the stone betrays the violence she has endured.

He shouldn't be here. A nobleman doesn't descend into these dark corners where flesh is put to the test, where suffering becomes a language. And yet, he came. He watched. He said nothing. He saw the blades cut into skin, the fists smash against fragile bones. He heard the questions hammered like orders. And always, the same answer: silence.

A silence heavier than pain. Sharper than iron.

Y/N of the Black Moon lifts her head. Her face is streaked with blood and sweat, her hair matted to her skin, tangled with wounds. Her eyes… they shouldn't be so empty. Not after what she's endured. Not facing him. He's used to broken gazes, pleas, threats spat between gasps. But not this. Not this unfathomable abyss.

Rafael clenches his fists. He knows what's next. They'll ask him to speak. To break the silence she opposes to her tormentors. He could. He's never needed to force his voice to be obeyed. A single word would suffice. Yet, nothing crosses his lips.

Why did he come here?

He doesn't know. Perhaps he wanted to see this face whose name is whispered like a prayer in the dark alleys. Perhaps he wanted to understand why the Emperor fears her enough to desire her complete erasure. But he finds no answer. Only this dull, inexplicable pain pounding in his chest as he watches her.

She doesn't lower her eyes. She doesn't beg him. She confronts him in this silence that slowly consumes him.

Rafael should speak. Order her broken, order the truth torn from that too-closed mouth. It's his role, isn't it? A warrior shaped by blood doesn't dwell on the agony of an enemy woman. And yet, he remains frozen. As if this silence, this void between them, is swallowing him too.

One of the tormentors approaches, a blade in hand, ready to resume the interrogation. Rafael raises a hand. Stops him.

An order. Cold. Unquestionable.

No one understands. But no one objects.

He approaches her slowly. In the gloom, the smell of blood and ash surrounds them like a shroud. He reaches out a hand towards her face, brushing her bruised cheek. It's not pity. It's not curiosity. It's something else. Something unexplained, dangerous.

She doesn't flinch.

And for the first time since he laid eyes on her, Rafael feels his world waver.

---

Rafael felt weak. It was a strange sensation for him, almost alien, as if the years spent forging himself in steel and war had only served to mask the true fragility of his soul. He should never have been there, watching her in that state, in that cruel light. He had grown accustomed to violence, to screams, to the sound of blood splashing on the ground, but never to this. Never to this heavy silence, this silence that placed unbearable pressure on his chest.

His eyes fell upon her wounds. They were numerous, violent, her skin marked by the history of a suffering he could never fully comprehend. But he saw them, almost felt them. As if every blow she had received was also his own. Perhaps it was the memory of his own scars that made him so vulnerable to her gaze. He remembered what he had been, what he still was: a man forged by war, a man no one had ever loved. And yet, she, that fragile shadow, did not flee. She confronted him. And that terrified him.

She looked at him, without a word. He stood there, frozen, in that heavy atmosphere of blood and ashes. Neither of them asked questions. Neither of them dared to break the fragile balance of their silence. Perhaps he didn't have the right to. Perhaps she never had the right to speak, to express anything. And he, the man who had forgotten what that meant, dared not free her from her own muteness.

Then, in a way that seemed almost unreal, she escaped. He saw her straighten up, gathering what remained of her strength, of her body exhausted by torture. She moved away, disappearing into the darkness, like a shadow among shadows. And he did nothing. He didn't stop her. He let her go. He watched her, and this time, his gaze met hers. A final exchange. A last moment where their souls brushed against each other, before she finally escaped.

He didn't know why he hadn't stopped her. He didn't even know why he hadn't ordered her to be caught, thrown to the ground, broken once more. Perhaps, on some level, he simply wanted to see her escape. Perhaps, in that shadow of his soul, he recognized something of himself. An escape. A desire for freedom.

But in that shared gaze, there was something more, something he couldn't quite grasp. A truth he wasn't ready to face. Perhaps it was the promise of a future he couldn't foresee, or the heavy certainty that he had just let a part of himself escape, without truly understanding why.

She disappeared into the darkness. And he, in the stillness of the room, remained there, haunted by the echo of her gaze.

---

The minutes stretched on, endless, like poison in his veins. Rafael remained there, frozen in the same position, silence heavy around him. The sounds of the room, the whispers of the guards, everything seemed to slowly fade, like a melody dying on too low a note.

He closed his eyes for an instant, a strange vertigo engulfing him. He shouldn't have let her go. He should have brought her back, forced her to answer, broken her as he always did with those who defied the Empire. But something within him, an obscure force, held him back. Why?

His thoughts swirled in his head like birds caught in a storm. He felt lost. Not in space, but in time, as if a puzzle piece he'd spent his life assembling had just slipped away, and with it, everything he thought he knew about himself.

He slumped onto the bench, hands pressed against his temples, as if he could erase what his eyes had seen, what he had felt watching her flee. An unbearable flash of truth, something far more dangerous than he could have imagined. He didn't understand yet, but he knew that all of this was much bigger than him, than the Empire, than the war. He had brushed against something unknown, forbidden.

A sudden noise startled him. He looked up, straightened himself. One of the guards, the one who had been ready to continue the interrogation, burst into the room, agitated.

"My Lord, she escaped. We… we couldn't find her."

Their gazes met, and Rafael saw fear in the guard's eyes. He cleared his throat, trying to calm his breathing, to regain control of this situation that was slowly slipping away from him.

"Return to your post," he ordered, his voice as sharp as steel, as if he hadn't doubted for a moment what he would say. But, in reality, he didn't even know why he was responding that way. It wasn't the Empire that worried him. It wasn't this woman's escape that tormented him. It was himself.

He stood up abruptly, his eyes fixed on the floor, where a drop of blood had left a trace. The world seemed to fade around him. He headed for the exit without a word, his mind drowned in confusion. He had let a shadow escape, but it was his own reflection he was now pursuing.

Outside, the night enveloped him like a dark sea. The cold wind struck his face. His steps echoed on the cobblestones, empty, like a solitary echo in a world he no longer recognized. He felt alien to himself, a man without purpose, without reason to be, lost in a declining empire he served without truly believing in it.

But the vision of her eyes, that icy gaze, still haunted him. The weight of her silence tore him apart from the inside. She hadn't begged him. She hadn't asked him to save her. She had simply disappeared. And in that suspended moment, she had taken a piece of him, a piece he didn't know he had.

He froze in the middle of the deserted street. Why? Why had he let all this happen? Why hadn't he acted as he usually did?

Then a thought struck him, clearer than anything he had experienced so far: he wasn't afraid of war. He wasn't afraid of the Emperor. But he was afraid of her. Of what she might represent to him. Of what she might awaken in him. And in that vertigo, he understood. He had freed the only thing he could never control: his own desire.

He turned on his heels, his heart pounding. He knew he had only one option left: to find her. But not for the Empire. Not for the war. Not for honor.

For himself.

---

Rafael always knew he wasn't one of them. The aristocracy tolerated him because he served the Empire with unfailing loyalty, but they never truly accepted him. No matter his victories, his name remained a scar on the lips of those who uttered it. An "impure blood," a war-bastard ennobled by force and not by birth. They silently despised him, some with polite smiles, others with barely concealed venom.

But Rafael never fought for their recognition. He fought for the only beings who truly mattered: his siblings.

They were young, too young to understand the cruel games of the powerful. They didn't wear the same armor as him, but they shared his blood, and that was enough to make them targets. Mockery, humiliation, condescending glances... Rafael saw them endure what he himself had suffered. He saw their tears they tried to swallow, their anger they hadn't yet learned to hide.

And he defended them. Always.

No one dared touch them as long as he was there. His fists had learned to speak before his tongue, and if the nobility had no respect for him, they at least feared his blade. But he knew he couldn't always be there. One day, he would leave, and they would have to face this world alone. So, he taught them what he knew. To stand tall, not to lower their eyes before those who despised them. To be stronger than the hate that surrounded them.

His youngest sister, Isolde, suffered the most. Too gentle for this world, too fragile to bear the malice that befell her. He often found her curled up, eyes red but chin defiantly raised. "I'm not crying," she always said. He never contradicted her. He simply placed a hand on her head and reminded her that she was stronger than she thought.

His younger brother, Adrien, had taken another path. He wanted to prove his worth, to fight for the Empire, for the honor of the Ambroise name. But Rafael saw the rage behind his ambition, a rage he knew too well. He tried to teach him not to let it consume him, but he knew Adrien would have to find his own way, just as he had.

He would do anything for them. Kill. Lie. Destroy.

But something within him was beginning to waver.

During an imperial mission in a ruined city, he met an old woman, sitting among the rubble, her gaze veiled by time. He should have ignored her, but she called him by name before he even introduced himself.

"You are the one the shadows fear, aren't you? The Bloody Angel."

He stopped, assessing her, ready to draw his weapon if necessary.

"What do you know about me?"

The old woman smiled, her trembling hands caressing a stone covered with ancient inscriptions. "It's not what I know that matters, it's what you still ignore."

Rafael clenched his jaw. He hated seers and their riddles. "Speak clearly."

She lifted troubled eyes to him. "You are at the center of an ancient oracle. A destiny sealed even before your birth. The Warrior of Blood and the Child of Night…"

His breath hitched.

He had heard those words before.

"What do you mean?"

She tilted her head slightly. "You're already looking for her, aren't you? Even if you don't want to admit it. She's in your mind, under your skin."

Y/N.

He wanted to deny it. But he knew it would be a lie.

Since he had let her go, she had never left him. Her shadow haunted his thoughts, crept into his nights. He saw again her burning gaze, her impenetrable silence. She was more than a prisoner, more than a symbol of rebellion. She was a mystery he couldn't shake.

He clenched his fists. "She's just a woman."

The old woman laughed softly. "No. She is the one who will break your chains… or drag you into the abyss."

He wanted to leave, to turn his back on these ramblings. But a weight had settled in his chest. A fear he knew too well.

He had never been afraid of an enemy. Never feared a blade pointed at him.

But she…

She was the only one who could destroy him in another way.

And the worst part was, a part of him wanted it.

---

He had to find her. It had become an obsession, a black thread winding around his thoughts every moment. His nights were haunted by the memory of her eyes, of that silence laden with everything she hadn't said. She had left, yes, but a part of her had remained anchored in him, like a thorn in the flesh that couldn't be pulled out without bleeding.

So he searched for her.

City after city. Witness after witness. He used his spies, his contacts, the secrets the Empire shared only with its most loyal blades. He followed almost erased traces, whispers in the underworld, murmured prayers in forgotten refuges.

And he found her.

In an abandoned crypt, where even light hesitated to enter, she awaited him. Not in surprise—no, she had known he would come. He felt in her gaze that calm certainty, that cold, vibrant strength that hadn't faded despite the wounds and escapes.

She didn't recoil when he entered. She didn't draw a blade. She simply stared at him, standing in that trembling light, as if he were just another ghost come to torment her.

"Took you long enough."

Her voice was low, hoarse, but fearless.

Rafael remained motionless for a moment. His armor seemed heavier than usual, his breath harder to control. He looked at her like a man rediscovering a truth he would have preferred to ignore.

"I have questions."

She nodded. An almost imperceptible smile touched her lips. "Of course, you do. But why should I offer you answers?"

He took a slow step forward, his boots echoing on the stone. "Because you owe me your life."

She shrugged. "And you owe me my freedom. We're even."

A silence stretched between them. Not the previous silence, not the silence of torture or pain. This one was charged with tension, with contained fire, with a desire to understand mixed with a fear of what they might find in each other.

Then she spoke again, in a calm tone:

"I'll tell you what you want to know. The whispers. The oracle. What I truly am. But not for free."

She advanced slowly, until her face was mere inches from his. Her eyes were dark, shining with a cold brilliance.

"Give me what I want. Names. Places. Plans. The secrets of your Empire."

He remained impassive. But his heart pounded violently.

She reached out a hand, barely grazing the plate of his breastplate, just above his heart. "You want the truth, Rafael? Then choose. Her or them."

He stepped back, his gaze hard.

"I will not betray the Empire."

She smiled, genuinely this time. A sad smile, but without surprise. "I know."

And she turned on her heel, walking away into the shadows, turning her back to him as if she knew he wouldn't strike her, wouldn't hold her back.

He didn't move.

She had just presented him with a dilemma he wasn't ready to solve. He had come for the truth, but he was leaving with a much deeper doubt: what if, to get what he sought... he had to become what he had always hated?

And in that abyss she had left behind, a feeling grew—stronger than fear, crueler than war.

Love.

Or something dangerously close to it.

---

Weeks had passed since she vanished into the shadows, and with each passing day, Rafael felt the warmth of her presence recede, like mist dissipating in the morning. He relentlessly searched for her, delving deeper into the abysses of alleys and palaces, where even the walls seemed to close to prevent the truth from surfacing. But despite his determination, she was nowhere to be found.

Then, without warning, she resurfaced. But not as before. Not as the elusive figure he thought he understood. This time, she caught him.

Rafael wasn't surprised. He knew the moment would come. He knew the answers would come from her mouth, but that didn't mean he was ready to hear them.

In the shadow of a dilapidated warehouse, she waited for him, her eyes as sharp as a honed blade, her face marked by cold determination. She was there to extract information from him, once again.

"You've learned nothing, Rafael. Still as stubborn." Y/N's voice was calm, but the tone betrayed a rage he recognized all too well.

He had been captured, tied up, and bathed in a stark light, his dark gaze defying hers. He knew what she wanted, but he wouldn't yield. Not this time.

She approached him with calculated slowness, like a predator who knows the pain it can inflict. "If you tell me where they're hiding the oracle, I'll let you live."

Her words didn't carry the weight she thought they would. Rafael, fists clenched, straightened with surprising strength. His wounds were still there, but they no longer held power over him. He had fought for too long to succumb to fear now.

"You want information? You want to know what I know?" He burst into laughter, but it was a bitter, joyless sound. "I hate you."

She stared at him, unreacting, waiting, not understanding.

And suddenly, in that tense silence, everything broke. He freed himself from the bonds, in a movement as fluid as shadow itself, and before she could react, he seized her.

He kidnapped her in turn. An irrational, impulsive act, but necessary, perhaps. He dragged her out of the warehouse, forcing her to follow his pace as he headed towards the most hidden place in his fortress, where no one could find them.

She didn't struggle. She didn't have time to question his behavior. She knew what he wanted—and he knew what she desired. An invisible war, between hope and betrayal.

When they were alone, out of sight, everything took a strange turn. Y/N, bound but calm, looked him in the eyes with a coldness he had never seen before. But something in her had changed.

Rafael stood before her, his gaze more twisted than ever. "So, tell me."

She smiled softly, almost like a tired woman. "Do you really think you'll control me?"

He hated her. He hated her for the way she embraced suffering, for her coldness that seemed as sharp as steel. He hated her for what she represented: a key he couldn't reach, a riddle that constantly eluded him. But despite everything, in his heart, he knew. He knew that every word she spoke plunged him deeper into his own trap. And worse, he knew that, against all logic, he loved her.

She was his opposite, his weakness, his challenge, and yet, she was also his own reflection in a broken mirror. They were two fragments of the same cursed destiny, bound by a prophecy he had never wanted to believe.

A brutal revelation then burst into his mind, like a lightning bolt piercing the darkness. He understood now. He understood what he had refused to see all this time. She was the key to destroying the Empire.

But he was the sword that could stop it.

Everything twisted in his mind. A terrifying truth that echoed the prophecy whispered in the ancient crypts. They were both instruments, pawns on a chessboard whose rules escaped their control. They could not escape their roles. She, to bring down the Empire, and he, to prevent that fall, by becoming what he dreaded: the instrument of violence and betrayal.

And yet, amidst this confusion, he felt a pain far deeper than physical pain. He hated her. Yes, he hated her for opening that chasm within him, for revealing emotions he had never wanted to feel. But at the same time, he desired her. And in this broken reality, that only complicated things further.

She knew it, of course. She had seen it in his eyes. And despite the cold demeanor she displayed, she understood too. They hated each other, but it was this very hatred that bound them, nourished them. And deep down, in the shadow of revolt and suffering, they found themselves condemned to a dance they could neither stop nor understand.

She was his key. He was her lock. And together, they would break this world. Or lose it.

---

Time seemed to freeze between them, suspended in a haze of incomprehension and contradictory desire. Rafael, fists clenched, watched Y/N, bound before him, her eyes shining with defiance, but also with a sadness he couldn't decipher. She wasn't what he had believed. She wasn't merely the enemy, the revolutionary he had to strike down. She was far more than that. Far more than an instrument of destruction. She was a shattered mirror of what he could have been, of what he could have felt if he had been a normal man, a man capable of loving.

She broke the silence, her voice soft but full of defiance. "Do you really think you can stop me from destroying this Empire, Rafael? Do you think your loyalty will protect you?" Her words were sharp, but he could read the pain she concealed, just as he himself concealed his own torments. She had seen, like him, that love and hate intertwined in this silent war, a war they could neither win nor lose.

He slowly rose, his eyes fixed on her, a mixture of fury and perplexity in his gaze. "You want to know what holds me back? What stops me from breaking you?" he asked in a hoarse voice, closer to a whisper than a question. "It's you."

She looked at him, destabilized, as if those words made no sense. "Me?" she repeated, almost amused. "Do you truly understand nothing of what's at stake here?"

He approached her, one step after another, like a predator forced to confront its prey without being able to flee. "No, I understand perfectly." He stopped just in front of her, his dark eyes seeking hers. "You are the key to everything. Perhaps even to my own ruin."

Y/N didn't answer immediately, but her gaze pierced his. She knew the pain in his eyes. She knew he was fighting against something far greater than himself, something he couldn't comprehend. It was their destiny, a destiny sealed by prophecy. The key to breaking the Empire, and the sword to stop it. They were caught in this spiral, and neither could escape.

She forced a smile, a bitter, almost cruel smile. "If only you knew…" she whispered. "If only you knew how wrong you were."

Rafael felt unsettled by her words. "What do you mean?" he asked, a touch of annoyance in his voice, but also a hint of curiosity, as if he were ready to hear anything now, even the most unbearable truth.

She took a deep breath, her gaze softening, almost sad. "The Empire, all it represents… I never wanted to destroy it. Not in this way." She paused, her eyes avoiding his for a moment. "But I had no choice. I was born for this. Born to be a symbol, a weapon. You want answers? You want to know why you hate me so much? Because we are two sides of the same coin. You cannot escape me, and neither can I."

He felt dizzy from her words, his heart beating harder with each one. He no longer knew if the anger rising within him was his own or hers. But what frightened him most was the truth he glimpsed behind her words: she was right. They were linked, irrevocably.

He pulled away from her abruptly, heading towards a window, gazing at the horizon. He could feel the pressure of destiny on his shoulders, weighing on his decisions, on every move he made. He knew himself capable of anything, but never of what he felt for her.

"I don't want this war," he said in a broken voice, like a painful confession. "I don't want to be the sword that brings down this Empire."

She looked at him, her dark eyes hardening, but something in her posture betrayed a vulnerability he hadn't noticed before. "But you are, Rafael." She slowly rose, approaching him. "You are already the sword, and the Empire has no idea what awaits it."

He finally turned to her, his eyes filled with a fury mixed with regret. "And you, Y/N? Are you ready to sacrifice everything you are for… what? For this revenge you believe is the only way out?"

She stared at him, her face impassive, but her eyes betrayed a deep weariness. "I never had a choice. I cannot escape." She paused. "And neither can you."

He watched her for a long moment, as if still trying to understand what he felt. There were so many contradictions within him. He hated himself for what he felt for her, but he could do nothing about it. It wasn't a simple attraction. It was stronger than that. An invisible bond united them, and neither could sever it.

"What do you want from me, Rafael?" she asked softly, breaking the heavy silence that enveloped them.

He took a deep breath. "I want answers. But more than that, I want to know why I feel you as both poison and a blessing at the same time." He took a step towards her. "Why I am willing to destroy everything for you, even if I know it will cost me everything."

She looked at him, her piercing gaze never leaving his. "Because we are both trapped, Rafael. And we can never escape." She moved closer softly. "We are bound by prophecy."

Her words echoed in his mind like a broken glass bell, each shard of truth hitting him harder. They were bound. Perhaps from the beginning. And perhaps this war was already lost for them, even before they could begin it.

Rafael approached her, one last step towards ruin. "Then there is no way out." His voice was hoarse, full of resignation. "Neither for you, nor for me."

She lowered her eyes, a shiver running through her body, as if she was finally accepting the reality he had just expressed. "No."

And in that heavy silence, they finally understood that their destiny was already written. There was no turning back.

---

The silence, after the kiss, was like an abyss.

The guards had moved away, muttering contemptuously, their footsteps echoing against the corridor's flagstones. Words like dishonor, vermin, and lost youth had flown past, but Rafael hadn't heard them. Not truly. Not as he should have. He had only felt the burning warmth of his own still-damp lips, and Y/N's short breath a few centimeters from him. She had frozen in his arms, eyes wide, fists clenched, trembling with a mixture of anger, fear, and… something else she herself refused to admit.

He had leaned towards her, in a perfectly controlled gesture. Calm. Controlled. Yet, that kiss had been anything but neutral.

It had been everything it never should have been.

Not passionate—no, that would have implied an assumed reciprocity. It wasn't that.

Not tender—that would have been too blatant a lie.

But necessary. Fiercely. Terribly.

It had tasted of a repressed need, an urgency he had feigned to ignore for too long. The kiss had lasted a breath, an eternity condensed into a suspended moment. It was meant to be a simple diversion, but their hearts had not played along. His had hammered against his ribcage as if trying to implore a truth he refused to accept.

And now, they stood there. Frozen. Two statues petrified in the gloom of a forbidden corridor.

He said nothing. Neither did she.

Y/N had turned her eyes away, her cheeks red with rage, humiliation… or that other thing, that feeling she didn't want to name. He had kissed her. Not as one kisses to divert attention, but as one kisses a truth one has been trying to stifle for months.

She took a step back, slowly. Her gaze slid back to him, a dark storm ready to erupt. She wanted to scream, to spit in his face what he represented: the empire, betrayal, the gilded cage. But her lips were still burning. And she had never been so confused.

"Why did you stop me?" she finally whispered, her voice hoarse with emotion. "You could have let me. You should have let me."

Rafael, still motionless, clenched his teeth. He closed his eyes for a brief moment, fighting against what was bubbling within him. When he reopened them, he seemed more tired than ever.

"Because you would have died, Y/N." He exhaled, like a confession. "Not in the shadows. Not cleanly. They would have dragged you through the squares. Slowly. Cruelly."

She shrugged, bitterly. "So what? He would have been dead. The throne empty. Fear in their hearts. That would have been enough."

He shook his head. He couldn't take it anymore.

"Not for me."

Those words escaped him. Three words. Heavy. Sincere. Too sincere.

Y/N recoiled again, her breath caught.

"What do you mean?" she asked, her brows furrowed, her throat tight.

He approached, in turn. Slowly. He wasn't afraid of her. He had never been afraid of her. What frightened him was what she ignited within him.

"You think I'm doing this for the Empire? For that degenerate emperor and those parasites who half-heartedly call me a bastard?" He stopped just in front of her. "You think I kissed you just to divert the guards?"

She faltered. Her eyes tried to read his, but there was no mask left. No facade. He was laid bare.

"I kissed you because I needed to. Because for weeks, I haven't been able to think of anything else." His voice was hoarse, trembling with a rage he no longer knew how to direct. "Because I would have rather died than see you run alone towards that throne room."

Y/N felt something softly break in her chest. She should have responded with hatred, with rejection. But nothing came out. Her body trembled. Not from fear. But because she had felt protected. Loved. And that, that was far more terrifying.

"What if I told you I'd do it again?" she whispered, almost in a challenge. "That I'd find another way?"

He stared at her for a long time. Then he replied, almost tenderly:

"Then I'll stop you again. As many times as it takes."

She gritted her teeth. Her heart cried out, beating too hard. The world was collapsing around them, and yet, she suddenly felt terribly alive.

"You are a mistake, Rafael. A tragic mistake in my path." She moved closer, placed her fingers on his chest. "And I hate you for it."

He placed his hand over hers, gently enclosing it. His eyes burned with that same strange intensity she no longer knew how to interpret.

"Me too."

And in that silence that had returned once more, in that irreparable tension, they remained there. Chained to each other, by love, anger, guilt, and a destiny that had left them no choice.

But unforeseen kisses often have more consequences than declared wars. And this one had just ignited the most dangerous.

----

Their blades clashed under the blackened sky, flashes of metal and anger, of fear and despair. The wind whistled through the columns of the old forgotten temple, silent witness to this duel that should never have existed. The dusty ground bore the marks of their footsteps, their hesitations, their invisible wounds.

Y/N struck with rage. Rafael parried with precision. He didn't truly counterattack—he resisted. Her. Himself.

"KILL ME!" she cried, panting, her arms trembling, her hand clenched on the pommel of her sword. "If you want to hand me over, do it now! Otherwise, get out of my way!"

Rafael stared at her, his hair matted to his forehead with sweat, his gaze fierce, burning. He was in pain. Not in his arms, not in his wounded side. No, that pain was duller, older. It was the pain of having to choose between the life imposed upon him and the one he had never dared to hope for.

"I can't, Y/N."

"You must."

"No."

A silence. A beat. Their swords stopped a few centimeters from their throats. Each could have delivered the fatal blow. Neither did.

Their breaths mingled. Y/N stared at him, her eyes wide, and in that proximity they had so dreaded, something gave way.

She wasn't weak. She was resolute, ready to die. But her blade, too, refused to obey.

"Why are you doing this?" she whispered, her voice broken. "You're their soldier. Their pawn. Why are you betraying all that for me?"

Rafael slowly lowered his sword.

"Because I am nothing without you. Because I grew up fighting for an Empire that never saw me as anything but a stained bastard. But you, you looked at me like a man."

She recoiled a step, as if his words struck her harder than his blows.

"You want to save me, but you can't save me, Rafael. I am a bomb. I am a war."

"Then I will die with you in the explosion."

She shook her head, furious, her eyes wet.

"You are stupid."

"I know."

She dropped her sword. The metallic clang resonated like a death knell.

He approached. Slowly. As if he was afraid of breaking the moment. As if he knew that the slightest word, the slightest wrong breath, would make her flee again.

But she didn't recoil.

She couldn't anymore.

When he took her in his arms, it was not an act of tenderness. It was a surrender.

She cried in silence. He buried his face in her hair, smelling her scent, her frantic heart against his chest.

"I will help you destroy it," he murmured, his voice hoarse and low. "The Empire. The throne. Everything. But not out of duty."

She looked up at him, red with tears and contained anger.

"Why then?"

He rested his forehead against hers.

"Because I'd rather burn this world than live in one where you don't exist."

And she knew.

They were lost. Lost in each other. They were the error of the system, the anomalies in a well-oiled machine. Two beings born to hate each other, two weapons pointed at each other, but unable to fire.

They were the promise of a new chaos. And this time, it wouldn't be a prophecy. It would be their choice.

Together. Against everything.

---

The d'Ambroise manor stood proudly atop a wooded hill, enveloped in winter's last breaths. It was a place too vast, too lavish for such a wounded family. And yet, it was the only place in the world where Rafael could hide her.

He had brought Y/N here in the dead of night, her hood pulled low over her dark hair, slipping through the shadows as if he'd done it all his life. She hadn't said a word to him. He hadn't looked at her except to ensure she was following. They were two fugitives from a world they had already begun to dismantle, in their own way.

She now slept in a room on the top floor, where no one dared to go without his permission. He had protected her from everyone, even his own siblings. For now. Time to formulate a plan. Time for her to accept being there.

The plan. It replayed endlessly in his mind.

The oracle, that insane prediction, had transformed their lives into legend. He had never believed in oracles. But sometimes he would look at Y/N and wonder if the gods truly were playing games with him. She wasn't a symbol, though. Not an idea. She was simply there, sitting on the window ledge, knees drawn up, looking lost, her eyes fixed on the dark forests.

She hadn't fallen in love with him. Not yet. Perhaps never. He knew it. And that hurt him more than a well-placed sword thrust.

He went down to the dining room. Adrien was already waiting for him there, in training armor, his gaze hard, almost wounded.

"You're hiding someone upstairs," he said bluntly. "I saw her. A girl."

Rafael sat down. He didn't deny it.

"So?"

"You're putting Isolde in danger. All of us."

He looked up at his brother, slowly. "Do you think I don't know that?"

Adrien stared at him, jaw clenched. "Who is she?"

"She is…" He hesitated. How to explain? "She is the Child of Night."

Adrien raised his eyebrows. Then he understood. "The oracle…"

"Yes."

"You're insane."

"Perhaps. But... I think everyone has been for a long time now."

Silence fell between them, cold and heavy.

Isolde entered a few minutes later, barefoot despite the cold, a long pale dress trailing behind her. Her large eyes fixed on her elder brother with a mixture of tenderness and worry.

"You brought her here?" she asked softly.

Rafael nodded.

Isolde said nothing more. She simply placed a slender hand on his arm. And that gesture, he felt it to his core. She understood. She had always understood.

Y/N came down once night had fallen. She wore a simple dress that Isolde had left by her bed. She didn't speak. Didn't look anyone in the eye. But she settled near the fireplace, as if she knew that fire asked no questions.

Rafael joined her a little later. He handed her a crumpled, ancient map.

"The Empire holds together because of its logistical nodes. Four strategic points. If we destroy them, the capital falls."

She stared at him, silent.

"You want to bring down the Empire? This is how."

Her fingers brushed the map. He shivered without showing it.

She whispered, her voice hoarse: "Why are you showing me this?"

"Because you need me. And I need you."

She looked at him for a long moment. Then shook her head. "You don't know me, Rafael. You think you love me, but you're just… lonely."

He took the blow. Didn't reply. Because deep down, perhaps she was right.

But it wasn't that simple.

What he felt for her transcended him. It wasn't passion. Not desire. It was more obscure, more vital. Like a part of him that had been torn away at birth, and that he was finally rediscovering.

Y/N, for her part, didn't yet know what she felt. She oscillated between hatred, mistrust, weariness. Sometimes, a form of respect. But never tenderness. Not yet.

She mistrusted him. His gentleness, his silences. That gaze he cast upon her as if she were everything. And yet, she stayed. Because the alternative was to die alone.

And perhaps also… perhaps in this shaky house, in this home built of scars, she had felt something fragile. A possibility.

The plan wasn't ready yet. Neither was their bond.

But it was a beginning.

---

The forest stretched before them, dense and threatening, as if it knew what awaited them. The wind whistled through the trees, a whispered warning that neither of them wanted to hear. They had left the manor with a single objective in mind: to meet an informant, a key person in their quest to destroy the Empire. But things never went as planned.

The ambush was as brutal as it was unexpected.

Screams tore through the forest's tranquility, followed by the blinding clarity of arrows whistling through the air. Rafael pushed Y/N behind him, drawing his sword with a swift motion. They fought frantically, trying to carve a path through the attack. Metallic clashes echoed like a distant sound, but soon, everything was reduced to an explosion of pain.

An arrow pierced Rafael's side with deadly precision. He collapsed almost immediately, pain striking him like lightning. A cry escaped his lips, but it was more of a gasp than anything else. Y/N, frozen for an instant in horror, lunged towards him, her frantic gaze seeking help. But there was none.

They were alone.

She supported him, dragging him behind the trees, hiding in the forest's darkness, away from their assailants' eyes. She had only one thought: she had to save him.

In the narrow, dark, damp hiding place, Y/N knelt beside him, her heart pounding. She tore a strip from her dress to make a makeshift bandage, but the blood wouldn't stop flowing. She pressed hard against the wound, fear gripping her.

"Rafael…" she whispered, but her voice almost broke under the weight of her anguish.

He looked at her weakly, a faint smile on his lips.

"You're… you're strong, Y/N. You'll…"

She shook her head sharply, her gaze filled with despair. "Don't say that. Don't die. I… I can't let you die. Not now."

He raised a weak hand to touch her face. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming, if he was still awake, but he felt the warmth of her skin against his. It was strange. Not the pain. But the intensity of this connection, of this inextricable situation. And then, he barely smiled.

"I'm… not so easy to kill."

She closed her eyes, fighting back tears. She leaned towards him, searching his gaze for a flicker of life, any hope. And, to her surprise, he offered her one.

He knew he would suffer. He knew he was risking his life. But he had never been so close to another human being. He had never felt such proximity, so fragile and yet necessary.

His fingers slid over Y/N's soft skin, almost unconsciously. A shiver ran through her. He should have fought, been afraid, but at that precise moment, it was he who was afraid of losing her.

She wouldn't let him die. Not like this. Not because of the madness of a fallen empire.

He gritted his teeth. "Y/N…"

She lowered her eyes, staring at the gaping wound that didn't seem to stop bleeding. The howls of the forest gradually faded, but the pain was there, like a fog that couldn't be dispelled. She leaned further towards him, closer, until their breaths intertwined. A strange, inexplicable contact.

"I… I will protect you." She whispered these words so softly that they almost lost their meaning. But in that promise was something more than a simple alliance. It was a conviction. A promise to protect him, at all costs.

He slowly nodded, his dark eyes meeting hers. "I know…"

She shivered under his gaze. He was no longer an enemy, no longer a cold, distant man. He was just a man, lying there before her, gravely wounded. And despite everything he represented, despite the ties that separated them, a part of her no longer wanted to see him suffer.

She tried to concentrate, seeking a solution, but her mind was muddled. She had been prepared for everything, to kill, to risk her life. But seeing Rafael there, broken, was something she never would have anticipated.

She straightened up in silence, then, gathering herself to her full height, took a deep breath to master her terror. She began to collect her thoughts, to think, to plan. He couldn't die. He couldn't. Not now.

He looked at her, almost astonished by the determination that shone in her eyes. A silent question arose within him: Could he have lived without her?

They were now nothing more than entwined breaths, a sigh suspended in the void.

He closed his eyes, pain engulfing him. "You won't let me die, will you?"

She nodded. "Never."

It wasn't a promise, nor a vow of love. It was a silent pact. A pact they would make in their own way.

In that darkness, with life hanging in the balance, they were all that remained.

---

Y/N didn't know how she found the strength, but she did. She saved him. In a world where everything seemed to want to break them, that small glimmer of life she had snatched from the dark night, it was him. Rafael. He wasn't out of danger yet, but she knew he wouldn't die before her eyes. Not today.

She had dragged him, despite the pain in her arms, despite the weight of his body on her shoulders. She didn't have time to think. She had to bring him back, tend to him, keep him alive. The manor was all she had, and all she could offer in this disastrous situation. A hiding place. A shelter. A last hope.

The road to the manor seemed endless. The pain of the outside world, of that relentless hunt, seemed to fade each time she whispered reassuring words to him. But deep down, she knew nothing would last forever. She knew there wouldn't be a happy ending, not in a world like theirs.

Rafael was weak, fever consuming him as she nursed him. His body was a sea of pain and groans, but she was there, always there, by his side. It was all he could offer her: his pain, his broken existence. She didn't want it. She would have wanted to avoid it, but she couldn't. Not now. Not after all they had been through.

When the doctor she had called to treat him hurried to administer remedies, she remained there, in the shadows, observing his face. She knew he would be out of danger, that the fever would eventually subside. But that question still lingered between them. When would calm return? When would all this end?

Rafael slowly opened his eyes, a strange sensation of warmth enveloping him. He wasn't ready yet to face reality, not yet ready to accept that this fight, this war they were waging, might well destroy them before they had the opportunity to change anything. But seeing her there, by his side, he realized that the war was nothing more than a distant shadow. He felt her close to him, her breathing soothing in the silence of the room. The warmth of her presence was all he had.

He turned his head, trying to understand her. Y/N. She had saved his life. She had brought him back here. But why? Why continue to fight for him when everything was against them?

A heavy pressure fell upon him. He knew that what they had wasn't meant to last. Fate had marked them in a way that neither he nor she could ignore. They were linked, yes. But not in the way they would have hoped.

His eyes fixed on her, a flame of incomprehension crossing his gaze. He felt guilty, but also grateful. She had risked her life for him. Why would she do that?

Y/N, for her part, couldn't help but look at him. She knew he felt that pressure. She felt it too. Time was their enemy. They had no more time. They had to act quickly, strike fast. Every day that passed was a missed opportunity to overthrow the Empire. And yet, deep down, she felt that they weren't at the end of the road. Their struggle had not yet reached its peak. But the price they would have to pay would be much heavier than anything they had endured so far.

She sat by his side, her fingers brushing the rough surface of his skin. It was a strange thing, to find herself in a position where she had to not only protect what she hated, but also find a form of peace in it. Their story wasn't going to end well. She knew it, but she couldn't help but think about it. Everything she had planned, everything she had imagined, was crumbling under the weight of this reality. A sacrifice was inevitable.

She had told him many times that life no longer had meaning without the accomplishment of their mission. But the longer she stayed near him, the more she understood that this sacrifice was not just for the Empire. No. It was for him too.

Days passed, and with them, Rafael's pain dissipated, but something even heavier settled in his mind. He understood that Y/N would not back down, that she would not live without this fight. She was ready for anything, even death. And he, he loved her. But he had never been so lost.

The Empire would not fall without their intervention, but he also felt as though his own heart might fall with it. Y/N pushed him into a whirlwind of emotions he couldn't control. She wanted to destroy everything. But him? He just wanted to make sure she didn't die.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Their roles were already written. They were the pieces of a cursed destiny, condemned to confront and love each other. And one day, one of them would die.

He knew it. Y/N knew it too.

And yet, he didn't have the courage to tell her. Not yet. Because deep down, he didn't want her to make that sacrifice. He didn't want to lose her. Not like that. Not before he had time to understand if he could save her.

But deep down, he knew that this sacrifice was already inscribed in their story. And he could do nothing to prevent it. No more than he could prevent himself from loving this woman, this child of the night who would destroy the empire.

---

Five Days

Five days.

That was all the time they had left. One hundred and twenty hours to shatter an empire, one hundred and twenty hours to change history, or to vanish into it forever. But Y/N, she didn't tremble. Not once. The world around her could burn, and she would look straight into the flames. It wasn't courage, not truly. It was older, deeper: a certainty rooted in her bones that this system would die, and that her hand would contribute to it.

Rafael, for his part, was on constant alert. He couldn't help but anticipate the worst. The plan they had devised hung by a thread stretched between madness and genius.

The plan?

Simple, on the surface. But every cog required surgical precision.

On the fifth day, at dawn, imperial convoys transporting the official seals of the crown would leave the palace to reach the Royal Archives. A rare event, justified by a ceremony for the renewal of war treaties—a political masquerade. The convoy would be heavily guarded. Too heavily, Y/N thought. Just enough, Rafael corrected.

While the seals traveled, the Palace would be momentarily weakened. The elite Guard, loyal to the Emperor, would escort the convoy. Only secondary officers would remain, corrupted, easily bought or manipulated.

They had a man on the inside: Adrien.

Rafael's younger brother, driven by his anger and his desire to change the order, had agreed. He hated the Empire, even if he pretended to serve it. He knew its veins, its weaknesses.

The plan was divided into three axes:

* Neutralize communications. Y/N and a handful of loyal infiltrators would cut magical and technological relays two hours before the attack. No one would be able to call for reinforcements. The Empire would be deaf and blind.

* Take control of the Council Chamber. Adrien would open the hidden passages of the palace catacombs, forgotten tunnels where the Emperor never set foot. Through there, Rafael and Y/N would infiltrate the heart of power. There, they were to capture the principal Councilors. The faces behind the faces. Those who had pulled the strings for years.

* Bring down the Emperor, live. A magical transmission would capture the fall of the Empire. Rafael knew the protocol. Y/N knew the truth. Together, they would expose the crimes, the lies, the rot behind the gilded facade. Not an assassination. A political execution. Before the entire world.

Everything was meticulously planned. But the danger, it was immense.

And Rafael felt the weight of every minute.

***

The day before D-Day, the air in the manor was stifling. The whispers had ceased, replaced by the silence of the condemned. Y/N had locked herself on the rooftop, her eyes fixed on the stars, as if they could whisper a truth she still ignored.

Rafael joined her. He said nothing. He simply sat down beside her.

The silence lingered. Then she spoke:

"Do you know what I feel most? Not fear. Not hatred. It's this absurd peace. As if… I've found my place."

He turned his head towards her. She wasn't smiling. But her eyes glowed with that calm light he had never seen in her.

"You plan to die," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a deduction. A condemnation.

She looked at him then. Truly. And it was like a blow to the gut.

"If that's what it takes for it to stop… then yes."

He felt his breath catch.

He wanted to slap her. To shake her. To beg her.

But he did none of that.

He slowly rose, extended a trembling hand towards her, forced her to stand, and whispered:

"You won't die."

"You don't know that."

"I will demand it of this world. I will kill anyone who lays a hand on you. Even you, Y/N. Even you."

She laughed, a broken laugh, a laugh of pain.

"You say that because you think you love me."

He grabbed her. With a sharp motion. He pulled her against him and kissed her.

Not a stolen kiss.

Not a strategic kiss.

A ravaged, burning kiss, that screamed "don't leave me" without ever uttering the words.

She didn't resist.

But she didn't truly respond either.

When they parted, his eyes were clouded with rage and anguish.

"I love you," he said. "I love you to the point where I'd rather see you hate this world on your knees than die proud. Do you hear me?"

Y/N didn't answer immediately.

She just rested her head against his chest, listening to his heart beat like a war drum.

Then, in a low voice:

"Then protect me. But never try to chain me. Never."

He held her tighter.

And in his silence, he made a promise:

If this world were to fall… he would fall by her side.

---

D-Day

The sun rose slowly, as if it knew it would never be the same after this day. A strange silence enveloped the d'Ambroise manor, a heavy silence, as if the very air held its breath. Every movement, every sound seemed to amplify the anguish that twisted Rafael's gut. He was ready, but he didn't feel ready. It wasn't fear, not exactly. It was the shadow of fate, a premonition that what would unfold that day would change everything, that there was something greater than him, greater than Y/N, greater than the Empire. Something terrible and inevitable.

Y/N, for her part, seemed unperturbed. She moved with the same cold determination as at every stage of their plan. She didn't let anxiety or uncertainty wash over her. No, Y/N lived in the present moment. She didn't think of the end; she thought of what she had to do now, what she had always wanted to do: destroy this empire, break it like a mirror too shattered to be repaired.

But even if she didn't show it, a part of her knew that this day would mark the end of a story, and not the one she would have chosen.

The Hour Approaches

The hours ticked by, suspended in unbearable anticipation. They had laid the first stones of their revolution, but the moment of the great clash was fast approaching. The plan, precise and calculated, was unfolding. Adrien and the others had acted as planned. The imperial seals convoy had been diverted. Communications were cut. The corrupted guards had opened the gates. Everyone was in position. And yet… everything seemed fragile, precarious.

Rafael stood before the mirror, adjusting his Marquis's tunic, seeking a stability he couldn't find. His hands trembled slightly, not from fear, but from a tension he had never felt before. It was no longer a question of victory, no longer a question of destruction. No. It was a question of their survival.

And yet, he couldn't tear his thoughts away from Y/N. She was the key. All of this, everything they had done, came down to her and him. They were both the cause and the solution to this chaos.

A question persisted. He couldn't shake it.

What would become of them once the Empire fell? What would they become?

Y/N entered the room, her gaze determined and her movements controlled, as usual. She approached slowly, and he felt his breath catch.

She stopped just in front of him. They stared at each other without a word. For an instant. Only one. Then, she spoke.

"You know what's going to happen, don't you?"

He nodded, a dull ache forming in his chest.

"Yes. I know."

She lowered her eyes, and for a moment, he thought she would break, that the facade she had built would crumble under the weight of reality.

But she straightened, her gaze becoming colder, more resolute.

"Then there's no turning back."

"No," he whispered. "No turning back."

She took a step forward, then turned, as if searching for something in the air, as if the answers were hidden in the void. And then, without warning, her voice became softer, more intimate.

"You know… I never wanted any of this. I never wanted a plan, a revolution. It wasn't my choice, Rafael. It was fate's choice. This world pushed me, pushed us to this. And I… I never wanted to be the one to end it all."

He looked into her eyes, an unspeakable pain in his gaze. He approached slowly, then leaned in to place a hand on her shoulder.

"Y/N," he whispered, "there's no shame in wanting to free yourself from this burden. Neither you, nor I, nor anyone deserves what the Empire has done to us. And you… you deserve to live. Not to die. Not here. Not now."

She closed her eyes, her brows furrowed, and a dull anger simmered within her. But she didn't reject him. She remained there, frozen, in that strange alchemy that bound them. Their fight was the same, their struggles were the same. But, at that precise moment, in that enclosed and intimate space, she no longer truly knew where her convictions ended and where the emotions she had always wanted to bury began.

The Final Clash

The battle was engaged. The plan was advancing perfectly, and yet, something was wrong. Tension wove through the air, heavy, unbearable. The palace armies stirred. The first fires of conflict burned in the capital. The dust of combat raised the scent of war.

They were in the catacombs, alone. Their allies fought above, but they were underground, a few steps from the heart of the Empire.

The hour had come.

They were going to take the Council Chamber, and with it, the Emperor's life. But as Rafael and Y/N advanced through the darkness of the cold corridors, a dull sound echoed. Something was not going as planned.

The elite guards were arriving. Many more than expected.

"We have to go," Y/N said, gripping her sword hilt.

"No. Not without him. Not without the Emperor," he said with a coldness he hadn't known for a long time.

She looked at him, a shiver running down her spine.

"What if we don't succeed? What if all this fails?"

Rafael turned sharply towards her, his gaze dark. His eyes gleamed with a flicker of uncertainty he hadn't wanted to admit until now.

"We won't fail. Not yet."

He turned, fists clenched, ready to attack. Destiny had led him here, and he wouldn't leave without facing what was to come.

The battle in the Council Chamber ended in a flash of chaos. Screams, crossing swords, breaking lives. All around, the air seemed to vibrate under the pressure of an implacable destiny.

He had found him. The Emperor. Finally.

But at that precise moment, something had broken within him. He looked at him, the sovereign he had sworn to destroy, a weak, pathetic man. And in that shared gaze, he understood that the end was already written. The end of their story, the end of the Empire. But what would become of them? Of him? Of Y/N?

The question gnawed at him, and he knew the answer would only come in the final moment.

As he raised his sword, silence fell.

The last breath before the storm.

And there, in that suspended moment, as everything was about to tip, he wondered, one last time:

Who would die, and who would survive?

Y/N or him.

---

The palace burned behind them. The black towers of the Empire collapsed one by one with dull rumblings, carried away by the revolt they had nurtured, directed, unleashed.

And yet… despite the victory, Y/N faltered. Her body, too battered, too tired, slid against the cold stones of the imperial courtyard. Blood stained her dark tunic, blacker than red. Too much blood. She felt her strength leave her like a sigh in the night.

Rafael caught her just in time.

"No… No, Y/N, stay with me."

He fell to his knees, holding her close. She weighed so little. Like a feather. Like a memory.

"Are you cold?" he asked, his voice trembling, his fingers on her cheek. "Tell me you're not cold…"

She smiled, a broken, almost childlike smile.

"I'm tired. That's all."

"Y/N…"

He had never said her name like that. Not like this. Not like a prayer. She felt each syllable like a caress, a farewell. She wanted to answer him, but her lips were dry. She wanted to say something… one last thing… but she couldn't.

So, he spoke for both of them.

"You know what I feel for you. Even if I never knew how to say it."

He kissed her forehead, softly. Like kissing a dream just before waking up.

"I love you. It wasn't planned, not wanted. But I love you, Y/N. I love you with a love that even war couldn't kill."

She closed her eyes. A tear rolled down her cheek.

"Then… stay with me," she whispered.

He squeezed her hand in his.

"Always."

He felt a burning in his chest. Then a second. He looked down. He was wounded too. For hours. He hadn't said anything. He had ignored the pain, as he had learned to do all his life. But now… now, it was too late.

He staggered, but didn't let go of her. He lay down beside her. He looked at her one last time.

"We won, you know…" he whispered.

She nodded weakly.

"Yes… but at what cost?"

Silence enveloped them.

The sky opened above them, vast, pure, starless.

And in the last seconds, their hearts beat at the same rhythm, one last time.

They were found like that. Two peaceful bodies amidst the ashes of a fallen empire. One against the other. Motionless. As if they were sleeping.

No one knew what they had said to each other.

But in the popular ballads, it was told that they died as they had lived: together, against the world, united by a love that death itself could not separate.

And sometimes, when the wind blows through the alleys of the old palace, one can still hear a whisper carried by the stones:

"For you, I would have destroyed a thousand empires. But I wish I could have lived… just one more day by your side."

The End

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