Rosalia — POV
At that moment, rage consumed me.
Not the petty kind of anger that fades after a deep breath—but a roaring inferno, scorching every vein, burning through my chest until I could hardly breathe. It wasn't just anger. It was grief's twisted twin, clawing at my ribs from the inside, demanding release.
And in that moment… I wanted nothing from this world except one thing.
One single, absolute thing.
Death.
My world had shattered in the space between one heartbeat and the next. The pieces of my heart lay scattered like glass shards, cutting me with every thought. I tilted my head back, not to the sky I could see, but to the heavens I could only imagine, and I prayed—silently, desperately—to the gods.
If there were any gods in this cruel world at all, then let them strike down that wretched author who had destroyed everything I loved… or, failing that, strike me down, here and now, and end this agony.
But the silence that followed was the kind that mocked.
No voice answered. No miracle came.
Perhaps the gods were deaf.
Perhaps they didn't care.
Or perhaps my pleas were so insignificant that they never even reached their ears.
And so, without the time to mourn my favorite character, without even the mercy of a moment to swallow the bitter truth that the only fictional soul I had cherished for years was gone… I had to drag myself back to reality.
I had to go to work.
The irony stung like salt in a fresh wound.
I left early that morning—what I'd told my mother the night before hadn't been a lie. I truly had traded shifts with a coworker after feeling ill yesterday.
So I did what I'd always done: I pressed down my sorrow, crammed it into the darkest box in my mind, and hurled it into the bottomless pit inside me.
Then I washed my face—just enough to look human—and stepped outside.
If you're wondering about lunch… don't. I honestly can't remember the last time I sat at the dinner table with my family.
There are six of us in total. Besides my "loving" mother and her spoiled youngest son, I have three elder sisters. And as my mother proudly reminds me, all of them are "successful" and "special."
The eldest is a psychiatrist, married to another doctor. The second is a teacher. The third is a housewife, already a mother of two.
So technically… my mother's claim that I am the only "crooked branch" on our perfect little family tree isn't entirely wrong.
…Oh, except for—
My stupid little brother, who at that exact moment was standing in my way.
God above, I didn't have the patience for this. Not here. Not in this reeking alley, littered with trash and shadows. I had somewhere to be. If I didn't get to work on time, my manager's wrath would be another storm to weather—and I was already drowning.
The alley was narrow, its air heavy with the stench of damp rot. A group of rowdy high school boys was shoving and shouting, their voices echoing off the stained walls.
One glance was all it took. The rainbow-colored hair, the cheap leather jackets, the swagger that screamed "wannabe gangsters." Nothing about them spelled "good news."
And in the center of the chaos—like a dark flame—stood a boy with jet-black curls, silver earrings catching the dim light, leather clothes clinging to his wiry frame. He gripped a wooden board and swung it with reckless force at someone's shoulder.
That lawless brat was my little brother.
The spoiled son my mother had raised was raised in a perfect storm of arrogance and impulsivity.
By now, it was far too late to fix him. Not that I hadn't tried. I'd attempted to discipline him before, but my mother would always storm in—yelling, hitting, accusing me of cruelty. Eventually, I stopped.
So I did what I always did—looked for a way out. I turned my head, scanning for another route. I didn't have the strength or the will to get dragged into my brother's chaos.
Especially not from someone who neither liked nor respected me.
"The cops are here! Everyone! Run."
The shout cracked the air like a whip.
I glanced back just in time to see the pack scatter, sprinting straight toward me. Behind them, officers charged, batons raised, the clatter of their boots echoing in the alley.
I stepped aside instinctively—at least, I tried to—when a rough hand clamped down on my shoulder and spun me around.
The face that greeted me was far too familiar. The sharp lines, the narrowed eyes, the sneer—it was like seeing my mother's rage bottled inside a teenage boy.
"Rosalia!" he spat, venom dripping from every syllable. "It's you! You called the cops, didn't you, you filthy snitch!"
If you're wondering why I didn't shout back, why I didn't defend myself—the answer is simple.
It wasn't that I didn't want to.
It was that I couldn't.
Like his dear mother, my brother was all impulse and no thought. He didn't even finish his accusation before yanking my shoulder again and shoving me—hard—behind him.
I was already exhausted, still weak from the illness I hadn't fully recovered from.
And that single push…
That single, thoughtless shove… was all it took to end me.
I wasn't so fragile that I would die from hitting the ground. But I wasn't strong enough to survive the rusted metal rod—thin, jagged, and cruel—that by some dark coincidence was sticking upright exactly where I fell.
It was as if it had been waiting for me.
And I… was its victim.
The cold pierced me first. Then the pain—sharp, all-consuming, stealing the breath from my lungs before I could scream.
My body crumpled to the filthy tiles, the ground greedily drinking in the heavy crimson spilling from me. The color was so deep it looked almost black.
My lashes trembled. My vision swam. And through that haze, I caught sight of my brother's face—pale, stricken. The scene had frozen him in place; he'd forgotten the police entirely.
I watched as they seized him, snapping cold steel cuffs onto his wrists. He didn't resist, didn't even blink—his gaze was fixed on me.
I wanted to move.
I wanted to speak.
I wanted to tell him it was all right.
Because despite everything—despite the insults, the fights, the years of distance—he was still my brother. And I… I could never truly hate him.
But my body refused. My limbs were lead. My eyes, so heavy, would not stay open.
Slowly… painfully… I let them close.
The last word that echoed in my mind was bitter and sharp: Damn it.
That morning, I had wished for the death of the author—or my own.
How cruel you are, heavens. You've ignored every plea I've made since I was a child, yet the one time I wish for death, it comes within the hour? You didn't even give me time to take it back.
If I had known my wish would be granted so swiftly, I would have wished for something else—something that mattered.
I would have wished for Cassel. For his return. For one chance to meet him.
But the world is merciless.
Cassel… it seems I truly cannot live in a world where you do not exist.
And so, my body grew cold. My breath stilled. My soul… slipped silently from this cruel, unfeeling world.
And that… was the end of me.
Or at least, that's what I thought.
To be continued…