Rosalia — POV
"You useless girl! Is this all that's left of your salary this month? How could you spend money so wastefully? Didn't I tell you your brother needs a new computer for school? I said to save every cent! So where is the missing 1,000 dollar ? Huh? Tell me, you unfilial daughter! You should be grateful I haven't thrown you out—still unmarried and without a real job. Everyone else in this family is doing well… except you."
Her voice cracked against me like a whip—thick, frayed, and merciless.
I sat on the bed, head bowed, as if awaiting judgment for some terrible crime. The truth? My only crime was existing.
This wasn't new. She had an endless vocabulary for telling me I was a disappointment. You'd think hearing the same thing for years would make you immune. It doesn't—it just makes you tired.
I kept silent. Explaining never reached her. She wasn't looking for answers, only for someone to blame.
My mother—by blood, if not by affection—stood in the center of our cramped room like a general inspecting a battlefield. One hand on her hip, the other jabbing the air at me with every sentence.
The air was thick with dust and the faint scent of old detergent. The wardrobe leaned to one side, its hinge protesting whenever opened. The desk was so scratched that the wood beneath peeked through.
Me? I was a doll left too long in the rain—black hair sticking to my fever-warmed forehead, limbs heavy as lead.
But she didn't notice. Or didn't care.
"Not only do you waste money, but you also skip work! What are you doing in bed? Is eating and sleeping all you know? You're nothing like your sisters. Sometimes I wonder if you're even my flesh and blood."
Soft voice, cold blade. The kind of tone that slides in and cuts deep without raising its volume.
I'd wondered the same thing. At nineteen, I even took a DNA test, praying it would free me from her shadow. But no—99.99% match. Fate can be cruel like that.
Four jobs. Weekends, holidays, mornings, nights—restaurant shifts, cashier work, freelance gigs. Every paycheck gone the moment it cleared, funneled into her hands, transformed into gifts for my younger brother.
This morning, I'd dragged my fevered body to the hospital. Tests, injections, medicine—1,000 dollar gone. My hands had shaken so badly that I dropped the receipt twice.
But she was only concerned that her golden boy's computer would have to wait.
"Rosalia! I'm talking to you—where's your mind?"
I met her gaze, voice flat. "I didn't skip work. I swapped shifts. And the 1,000 yuan was for medical expenses."
Her face eased instantly at the mention of work. The hospital part? Ignored.
I'd long stopped expecting concern. I wasn't the crying child anymore, begging for warmth. My heart had crumpled in on itself years ago.
There was only one person in the world I loved now—Cassel Zancroft.
A few minutes later, her footsteps faded down the hall. The air felt lighter.
I sank into the mattress, springs creaking under me, and slipped my hand under the blanket for my phone.
Because honestly—who has time to beg for love from this family when there's the greatest villain in the world to admire?
Not just any villain. The villain—Cassel Zancroft of Last Boss in the Apocalypse. The man who could steal your breath with a single scene. Cold, elegant, untouchable. Without him, the novel would collapse into a heap of clichés.
The apocalypse he ruled was a glorious mess—zombies with steel-trap jaws, mutant plants, superpowered humans throwing lightning and ice like party favors.
And Cassel moved through it like a predator who knew his worth—answering to no one, bending to nothing. Even so, he always protected the heroine, shielding her, making everyone believe he was secretly in love with her. His half-brother certainly believed it—enough to use her as bait, even stealing Cassel's late mother's Jade necklace for him.
Cassel Zancroft was lethal, but that was exactly why I adored him.
If I could live like him—untouched by opinions, bound by no ties—
I shook my head. Today was update day. Yesterday, the author had promised a "big surprise." My fever was still gnawing at me, but my heart was drumming with anticipation.
The curtains were drawn, the room in shadow. I opened the app, thumb trembling as I tapped the latest chapter.
Then—
The ground dropped out from under me.
The words sliced through me: fatally wounded… dead.
My breath caught. Tears blurred the screen, hot and relentless.
"Why… why did this happen?"
Last night he'd been fine. No warning. No foreshadowing. And now—dead?
"What the hell is this? You trash author—"
Bang! Bang!
"Be quiet, you idiot girl!" my mother yelled from the hall. "If you're good enough to yell, you're good enough to work!"
I ignored her, diving into the comments. Chaos. Readers furious, devastated, refusing to believe it.
Then the author appeared:
Sweet Melon: Yes, your beloved Cassel Zancroft is dead. He was betrayed and poisoned by the heroine and his half-brother, a toxin that disabled his powers. If you want details, keep reading.
"Sweet Melon, my ass," I muttered.
"Cassel… Cassel…"
I whispered his name into the stillness, the darkness pressing like a shroud. I didn't know when I fell asleep—only that I refused to accept it.
Morning light dragged me back. The fever was gone, but a hollow ache remained.
No. It hadn't been a dream. The betrayal, the loss—it was all still there, sharp as broken glass.
"How am I supposed to live in a world where you don't exist, Cassel?"