Chapter 8: Rudeus Blackheart 2
You ever wake up one morning, stare at yourself in the mirror, and think: Christ, I'm screwed?That's me. Every morning now.
Ashen hair. Crimson eyes. A face so perfect it oughta be on a damn cathedral mural. And behind it all? Me. Jimmy Bellic. Ex-mafioso, street rat, orphan, killer, addict. Now reincarnated as the weakest bastard in a fairytale otome game.
Out of all the lives I coulda landed in, out of all the sons of bitches Fate coulda tossed me into—no. I get Rudeus Blackheart. The spare part. The reject suitor. The eleventh wheel in a story already choking on pretty boys.
Yeah. Life's got jokes.
I was still chewing on that bitter pill, pacing the grand bedroom they stuck me in, when it happened.
At first, it was a sound.Not a real sound—more like static scratching the inside of my skull. Like a radio that wasn't tuned right. Then came the pressure, like someone shoved a corkscrew between my temples and twisted.
I stopped dead, gripping the bedpost, hissing between my teeth.
"What the hell—?"
And then it appeared.
A glowing square. Floating in the air. Pale light bleeding out, soft enough not to blind but sharp enough to make my gut twist. Words scrawled across it, glowing like they were carved in fire.
I stared. Blinked. Rubbed my eyes. Still there.
The text read:
[System Activated][New Quest Available]
My jaw went slack. I actually laughed. A dry, cracked laugh that echoed in the big fancy room like a gun misfiring.
"You gotta be kidding me."
I waved my hand through the air, expecting the thing to vanish. It didn't. Just floated there, smug as a loan shark who knows you're broke.
"Great. Not only am I stuck in a goddamn dating sim, now I've got pop-ups."
The text shimmered, lines rearranging, new words clicking into place:
Quest: Fake Your DeathObjective: Convince the world that Rudeus Blackheart has died.Failure: Continuation of all Death Flags.Reward:– [Free Man]– [???]
I read it three times. Real slow.
Then I laughed again. Louder this time. Almost hysterical.
"Fake my death? Christ almighty… That's the most mobster thing I've ever heard in my life."
Here's the thing: I know death. Intimately. I've seen more bodies hit the floor than a mortician. And faking it? That ain't new either. In the mafia, "disappearing" was an art. Guys did it all the time—ducking heat, dodging cops, slipping away from vendettas. I've helped plan a couple myself. Hell, I once buried an empty casket with more ceremony than a state funeral just so a capo could vanish to Argentina.
So when this system—whatever the hell it is—tells me my one way outta this mess is to fake my death?
I don't laugh because it's funny.I laugh because it makes too much damn sense.
Let's break it down.
Stay as Rudeus Blackheart? I'm screwed. His story's got more death flags than a battlefield. Poison, daggers, political sabotage, betrayal—you name it, it's waiting for me. The game never gave him a happy ending. Not once.
But if Rudeus "dies"? That's freedom. No script. No expectations. Nobody gunning for the bastard son of Duke Blackheart.
That reward—[Free Man]—it's not just words. It's survival. It's the first breath of air after drowning.
And the second reward? The one labeled [???]…
I stare at it. My mouth goes dry.
"Don't like that," I mutter. "Don't like that one bit."
It glows faintly, teasing. Like it knows I'm curious. Like it's daring me.
"What the hell's behind those question marks? Knowing my luck, it's cursed. Something shiny on the outside, rotten on the inside. Story of my life."
Still… there's something about it. Something heavy. Like staring down a loaded gun you know ain't pointed at you yet.
I flop onto the bed, arms spread, eyes burning from the glow. The ceiling above is painted with cherubs and roses, like some noble kid's daydream. I can't help but grin bitterly.
"So this is my life now. I wake up, stare at my pretty-boy reflection, then argue with floating text boxes. Wonderful."
But the grin fades quick. I sit up, elbows on my knees, palms pressed together like I'm praying.
Alright. Let's think this through, Bellic.
Objective: Fake my death.Constraints: I'm stuck in a noble's mansion, surrounded by servants and eyes. Every move's watched. Every word's measured. If I trip wrong, I'm dead for real.
Options? Limited.
But I've done more with less.
The gears start turning. I pace the room, muttering under my breath.
"How do you fake a death in a world like this? No forensics, no autopsies, no cameras. It's all about appearances. Convince enough people, you control the story."
My mafia brain pulls up old tricks. Burned bodies. Switch corpses. Paid-off witnesses. Vanishing acts in the dead of night.
Here? I'll need something noble enough to be believable. Something dramatic enough that nobody questions it. Carriage accident? Assassination? Poison at a banquet?
Yeah. That'll do.
And I'll need allies. Can't pull a stunt like this alone. Which means playing the game—just enough to make contacts before I disappear.
I smirk. My reflection in the mirror smirks back.
"Alright, System. You want me to fake my death? I'll do it better than anyone's ever done it. Rudeus Blackheart's dying soon. And when he does? Jimmy Bellic's walking free."
The text box pulses once, almost like it approves. Then it fades into nothing, leaving me in silence.
For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, I feel something stirring in my chest. Not fear. Not despair.
Hope. Twisted, dangerous, but hope all the same.
Because if there's one thing I know how to do, it's survive.
And if the world wants Rudeus Blackheart dead… then I'll give it exactly what it wants.
On my terms.