"Yes! I feel horrible, Evan. I'm truly, truly sorry for what I did. Please… forgive me. Don't push me away anymore."
Her words cracked through the silence, trembling with desperation. A desperate, raw plea that hung in the air between us.
I cupped Emilia's cheeks, warm beneath my palms, damp with her tears. Her face was streaked, broken, but still… beautiful.
Those caramel eyes—once so bright, so full of life—were now drowning in a sorrow I had carved into her myself.
But behind that beauty, I couldn't escape it.
The memory.
The memory of the sickening snap of her neck, the hollow thud of her body crumpling against the floor. My cruelty had stolen her breath, and yet here she stood before me again, crying for forgiveness as if mocking me. As if the universe itself was playing a cruel, sick joke.
What the fuck is happening?
My knees buckled. A sudden, dizzying wave of nausea hit me, and the world spun violently. I collapsed, crashing down against the cold floor with a choked gasp.
"Evan!" Emilia's voice rose in panic as she caught my shoulders, clutching me like she could hold me together.
Her touch, so warm and real, was a terrifying contradiction to the phantom coldness of the corpse I remembered.
"Evan, what's wrong? You're so pale—you're shaking! Should I call someone? Should I take you to the hospital? Please, tell me what to do!"
Her cries were no longer sorrow but terror. The fragile composure she had just regained shattered, and her fear became a frantic, desperate thing.
I forced my trembling hands upward, wrapping them around her waist as if to anchor myself. The fear was a physical presence in my body, a cold, empty feeling that made my bones ache. My voice broke as I whispered, "Ema…"
"There's nothing. I'm fine," I lied through clenched teeth, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. My body felt hollow, haunted, a shell of the man who had just committed an atrocity.
"Fine?!" she choked, her fingers digging into my arms. "You can barely stand, you're shaking, your face is—Evan, don't lie to me. Please, don't shut me out now." Her caramel eyes searched mine—wide, frantic, shimmering with terror.
I swallowed hard, forcing a smile that wasn't really a smile. "As long as you're here… I'll be fine." The words were a bitter, desperate lie. As long as you're here, I can pretend I didn't kill you.
I buried my face against her, inhaling deeply. The scent clung to me—jasmine, sweet and intoxicating. It was the same scent I remembered from her, the same perfume that had filled the air as she died. People would kill for a moment like this: a beautiful young woman in their arms, soft, warm, alive.
But my mind wasn't here.
What the fuck is actually happened just here?
I remember it. Clearly. The anger boiling in me, the snap of control breaking. The cold rage that had consumed me. Her body going limp, lifeless on the floor. I didn't imagine it—I saw it. I felt it. The weight of her still body in my hands, the final, terrifying stillness.
And then—those damn blood-red warnings, flashing like a glitch in reality. A screen tearing across my vision. A shift. A scenario reset.
No, I'm not crazy. I know what I saw.
Which means this—her warm embrace, her trembling body pressed against me—shouldn't exist. She shouldn't exist.
My arms tightened around her despite myself, and a sick contradiction gnawed at me. God, it feels good. Soft. Human. Comforting in all the ways I don't deserve. It was a warmth I had been denied, a presence I had destroyed.
And yet… it's fucking terrifying. Because I'm holding the same girl I killed.
"Evan, are you… okay now? I think—the shaking's calmed down."
"Yeah… I think it did. Thanks," I said, my voice hoarse, as I pushed myself up from her embrace. My body felt heavy, but not nearly as heavy as the silence pressing between us.
"Evan… should we go to the hospital? Or call a Healer? Just to be safe?" she asked, caramel eyes still glistening from earlier. Her concern was so genuine it was almost painful to bear.
I forced a small smile, though inside I felt sick. "No, Ema. I'm perfectly fine. Really. Just didn't have breakfast… or dinner last night. That must've been why I felt dizzy."
The words came out steady, but every syllable was a lie. The real reason… the one I couldn't tell her… was the simple, terrifying truth that I had just witnessed her murder.
"Why didn't you eat then? Are your servants not doing their duty?" she pressed, concern lacing her words.
"Well, that's not it," I replied with a faint smile. "I was just… upset about yesterday's duel, so I locked myself in my room." The lie was a second-skin, a comfortable shield I had worn for as long as I could remember.
Inside, I almost laughed. Yep. Guilt always works. Every time, it shuts their mouths for me.
"I–I'm sorry about that," she said, her lips trembling.
"Well, anyway, Ema… about the talk we were having—"
"It's alright, Evan. Maybe we should leave that for another day. Your health comes first," she said gently, sliding her arm under mine to help me stand.
"But Ema, I want to talk about it now."
The need for control, for closure, for some kind of answer, gnawed at me. I needed to finish this conversation, to see it through to a different conclusion.
"Evan, please. I was the one who asked you here, but… your health is more important." Her kindness made bile rise in my throat.
Health first? Fuck that. I've got no strength left to dance around this conversation again. Listen to me, you stupid girl. I've got other things to worry about than your tears. But of course, I didn't let the words slip.
Instead, I forced a shaky breath, eyes fixed on hers. "Please, Ema. Listen. Just… listen."
"Evan…" she whispered, her resolve wavering.
I tightened my grip on her hand, my smile trembling but resolute. "You apologized. Now it's my turn to answer." I leaned in close, my voice dropping to a low, raw whisper that felt more true than any lie. "…I forgive you, Ema."
The words were an offering, a carefully constructed sacrifice.
"Not because I think you're at fault…" My throat tightened, every word clawing its way out, "…but because I am just as much to blame."
The silence between us stretched, heavy and suffocating, and I forced myself to continue. The lie felt so real, it was almost believable.
"I know there are still mistakes… mistakes I can't erase. I didn't listen to you. Not once. I bargained with Lucas when everything was on the verge of breaking, and I treated you like some prize—like a trophy whose worth could be set on a table and wagered."
The words dripped like poison from my lips, each syllable heavier than the last.
Each confession a carefully calculated step toward her forgiveness.
"I… I never even asked what you wanted. I jumped ahead, acted on my own. And that makes me no different from him. No better than Lucas."
I clenched my fists until my nails bit into flesh. The pain was real, a grounding force in this unreal moment.
"What's the difference, Ema?" I asked, my voice low, hoarse, almost trembling. "He stripped you of choice… and so did I. He dressed it in violence, I dressed it in pride—but in the end, both of us reduced you to an object."
Her breath hitched, and the sound pierced me deeper than any blade. It was a sign that my words were hitting their mark.
"I thought I was protecting you. But maybe…" I exhaled sharply, my chest aching, "…maybe I was just protecting myself. My ego. My image as your so-called fiancé."
"So, Ema… I'm asking you this—can you find it in that big heart of yours to forgive your foolish fiancé?" My voice cracked, the words clumsy on my tongue. "I've never been good at apologizing, you know that. Yet here I am, begging to be forgiven… like a pathetic man who can't undo what's already been done."
I held her gaze, even though every second of silence felt like a blade pressed against my throat. If she says no… then god, what's left for me? To bare myself like this and still walk away empty—might as well kill me now.
Her lips trembled. Her eyes glistened. And then, a small nod.
"Hmm…" Her voice broke into a whisper. A tear slipped down her cheek, followed by another, and then she gave me a fragile smile—one carved from relief, not joy. "Evan…"
She folded into me, arms wrapping around my frame. Her tears soaked through my shirt, each drop burning into my skin. But this time, it wasn't grief—it was release. Happiness.
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding and muttered, "Man… you girls sure love to cry. Or maybe I'm just too damn good at making you cry."
"Probably the latter," she whispered into my chest.
I stiffened. "What did you just say?"
"Nothing," she murmured quickly.
I didn't push it further. My hands hovered awkwardly before finally resting against her back, locking myself into this absurd, fragile moment. Cringe or not, it was real. Too real.
Her chest pressed against mine, soft and warm. For a fleeting second, I thought about nothing else—not my mistakes, not Lucas, not the sins piling on my conscience. Just this. Just her.
Later, I told myself. Later, in the silence of my dorm, I'll untangle all the mess I've buried. Later, I'll face the truth that there's still something unresolved between the so-called heroine… and the side villain chained to her fate.
The quiet of the empty room was deceptive. It held a festering silence, a truth unspoken that was more dangerous than any shout. There was still something festering between us. Something ugly. Something inevitable. And when the time came, it would bleed...
----
--
After the reunion and that little "resolution" between me and Emilia, things more or less went back to how they were before.
Well—almost.
Now we were basically the main characters of some cheap drama, the kind people couldn't stop whispering about in the halls. It was a spectacle, and we were the main act. Every hallway became a stage, and every student a member of the audience.
Especially the girls. You'd think they just got front-row seats to a K-drama episode, the way their eyes sparkled like they were watching their favorite oppa and noona rekindle some tragic romance. Too bad this world doesn't even have K-dramas, or they'd probably be crying in slow motion by now, wiping away tears of joy as we walked past.
And there we were, hand in hand. Yeah, I'll admit—inside I was cringing like hell, but outwardly? I played along. Gotta commit to the role, right?
The feel of her small, soft hand in mine was an absurd, terrifying reminder of what had just happened. For now, let's just say I was Emilia's personal simp, the devoted fiancé who had just been brought back from the brink of emotional collapse.
"Oh my god, they reconciled! Look at them holding hands—how sweet!" a girl whispered, a blissful sigh in her voice.
"Uwaah, it's like one of those dramas where the couple breaks apart but fate pulls them back together…" another chimed in, lost in a fantasy she had constructed for us.
"Honestly, they look so perfect, don't they? A noble love story, right before our eyes!"
Meanwhile, a few seats away, some other guy muttered under his breath, "Tch… look at those two. Clingy as hell. Ugh, I hope they fight again and actually break up this time."
Of course, he didn't exactly get away with it.
"Oi, who the hell just insulted Lord Evan and Lady Emilia?" someone barked, a self-appointed knight defending our "perfect" romance.
Another voice followed, "Aron, I think it's that dude with the giant ass forehead. Grab him!"
"W-wait, hold on, it was a joke
I didn't mean— Aaaagh!"
Yep. That was the kind of chatter going around us—half gossip, half mob justice.
And I just stood there, watching the scene unfold with a detached amusement, a stranger in my own life.
Anyway… that was the new "normal."
Even after all that drama, the day didn't exactly go "well."
Not for me, at least.
The entire time, I was teased nonstop by my so-called friends—especially Ryan and Aron. Damn bastards were getting bolder, too, throwing jokes at me like they were auditioning for a clown competition.
Every jibe, every jab, every punchline about my "soft side" felt like a tiny pinprick against my already frayed nerves.
I could've snapped back, could've burned them with a few words… but honestly? I just didn't have the energy.
Not today. So I let it all slide, like water off my back. My mind was too preoccupied with the memory of a cracked neck and a silent, unmoving body.
When classes finally ended, I slipped out. Didn't bother sticking around. The last thing I needed was more fake smiles and unwanted attention. I just wanted to be alone, to let the noise of the day bleed out of me.
I didn't head for my room, though. Instead, my feet carried me upward—toward the dorm roof.
And there it was: the sky. High, endless, painted in colors that should've been beautiful. Should've. The sun was a bleeding orange, dripping into a bruised purple, and streaked with veins of gold. It was a masterpiece, but I wasn't really in the mood to admire it. To me, it just looked like a glorious, open wound.
I walked straight toward the railing, the kind of move that would make normal people nervous. Me? I just climbed over without hesitation. My hands found their hold on the cool metal, my body moved like it had done this a hundred times before.
Balance perfect, steps steady, I stood on the narrow pole like it was the most natural thing in the world. The wind tugged at me, whispering in my ear, a gentle, insistent pull. It couldn't shake me. My body was too well-trained for that.
Up there, it felt… quiet. Almost peaceful.
I was there alone. No one else in sight.
Most people wouldn't bother coming up here anyway. After classes, they'd already drained themselves, and besides—why climb all the way to the roof when the dorm balconies give you a view just fine?
That suited me just fine. It gave me a brief moment to breathe, to silence my thoughts, to just… look at what was going on.
"System," I said, my voice barely a whisper against the wind.
Silence.
I clicked my tongue. "System." I said it a little louder, a command this time.
Still nothing.
"Don't fuck around," I muttered, voice sharper. The facade was slipping. "I know you're there. So come out. We can talk, alright?"
The quiet stretched, a suffocating, heavy weight, and I felt my jaw tighten. The silence was an answer in itself. An infuriating, mocking one.
"Fuck—don't test my patience. I know you're the one who pulled that shit back then. All those cryptic warnings… and that damn time reversal stunt. That was you."
My breath came out heavy, words spilling sharper, harsher, fueled by a building frustration.
"So stop hiding. Show yourself. Don't fuck around with me."
Again, the silence. An absolute, impenetrable void.
It's suffocating, crawling under my skin.
"So that's what you are, huh? Stubborn. You only come when the story demands it, then vanish again. Nothing more."
And here I am, a fool, clinging to the idea that maybe this time was different. That maybe I was different.
But no.
Saved again, by intention or accident, I don't even know. Doesn't matter.
Now it's just me. Silence. My head full of thoughts, replaying everything on loop.
When did I start changing? When did I stop being… me? When did I start slipping into Evan Ravenshade like a second skin I can't peel off?
I remember that night. The alley. That thug trying to rob a hooded girl with a bag, the bag she left behind when she ran away. When I killed that thug. I remember the feel of the knife. I killed him. Knife straight into his eye. And I did it on purpose.
But the way I reacted after… I don't remember. Did I panic? Did I fake it? I remember walking away simply, like a small drama of a small reel of Instagram or YouTube shorts that you see and scroll. The death was a footnote, a small, insignificant event.
Why did killing him feel so different than killing Emilia?
This body—this cursed vessel—burned with anger. With guilt. It felt. But when my mind clawed back control, all I thought about was the consequences. Not her face. Not the fact she would never breathe again.
The body screams one thing, the mind whispers another, and the emotions—
God, the emotions—
They twist like broken wires sparking in the dark. The current doesn't flow right. It jolts, snaps, stutters.
I can't tell where I end and this body begins.
It's a fucking mess. A grotesque, broken thing I can no longer understand.
And the worst part?
I don't know if it's me that's slipping, or if it's always been this way and I'm just noticing now.
Am I just going to fall back into the role fate carved out for me? Am I destined to be the villain?
Or am I going to claw my way out?
I don't know.
For the first time… I don't understand myself.
And that terrifies me more than anything I've killed.