Fate always plays a ruthless game of cat and mouse with us.
No matter how desperately we try to erase our fears or escape our faults, they always find their way back—slipping through cracks, seeping into the moments we believe ourselves safe.
Just like Blythe and the Joker.
One tried to erase his mistake.
The other tried to escape her fear.
But…
Still, fate dragged them into the very same situation in Utterly—only the time and place had changed.
It felt as if fate was mocking them.
Even behind a mask, his eyes had haunted her for years.
Those eyes deepened with every passing second, pulling her under—as if she were sinking into him slowly, helplessly.
And tonight—even without speaking—a single, intense gaze told her everything:
He would come back for her.
gasp—
Blythe jolted awake from her nightmare for the third time, dragging desperate gulps of air into her trembling lungs. Her heart hammered as though trying to escape her chest; even her organs felt as if they were shivering.
"Miss? Are you okay?" Mr. Tim's voice came from outside her bedroom door, laced with worry.
Blythe felt helpless—horribly, painfully helpless—exactly as she had eight years ago.
If not for tonight's incident, she would have almost believed she'd overcome those horrendous memories.
She leaned her forehead against the mattress, her satin-black nightgown clinging to her body from cold sweat. Her long hair was plastered to her skin. She looked drenched—as if the nightmare had physically dragged her back into the past.
After a few moments, she managed to steady her breath.
"Come in…" she whispered.
Mr. Tim entered and walked toward her. The moment he saw her condition, his brows sank with sadness and distress.
"Uncle…" A lone tear slipped from her right eye. She looked impossibly fragile.
"Child, what's wrong?" Mr. Tim's eyes reddened instantly. He dropped every bit of formal etiquette and spoke the way a parent speaks to their wounded child.
Her expression was the same one she wore eight years ago. That alone terrified him more than anything.
"Are you having nightmares again, dear?"
Blythe nodded faintly.
"We can't use medicine. I'll send Linda to prepare you a calming tea and—huh" he walked to the window—"let me get you some air." he opened the curtains letting the clear moonlight spill softly into the room.
"If you want, we can take a walk in the garden. That might help you relax."
His tone was gentle, but he looked more nervous than she did.
Blythe thought for a moment, then nodded.
Mr. Tim carefully guided her out.
The moon was bright and tranquil tonight.
The vast garden stretched across acres, filled with lavender beds and tall rosemary trees. Under the silver glow, the place felt ethereal—like a sanctuary pulled out of a dream.
Blythe walked slowly through the lavender field.
Her nightgown brushed the petals, picking up their calming scent. The cool night breeze wrapped around her, soothing her frightened soul.
She wore a cream woolen shawl over her shoulders, and Mr. Tim walked beside her quietly.
After a while, they reached the artificial lake. They sat on the bench by the water. Linda brought the tea and some light snacks, which Mr. Tim served. He also joined her.
The moment felt warm. Familiar. Almost like family time.
And why not?
Mr. Tim had served her father—Eugene Whitmoré—a wound that neither Blythe nor Julian could speak of without reopening old pain.
He and Eugene were more like brothers than master and servant, having grown up side by side. Mr. Tim's father, Mr. Carl Warren, had been the butler of Eugene's father, Mr. Martin.
Their ancestors have been Butlers for the Whitmoré clan, so do they.
Eugene and Julian's marriage was a love story between two very different worlds. Different classes. Different lives. But Eugene had fallen for her sharp mind and cunning charm. His family opposed the marriage, yet they married anyway.
When Blythe was four years old, Eugene passed away.
Everyone tried to separate mother and daughter, but Julian held on.
In the den of hyenas, she protected her cub and preserved her husband's legacy.
In just seven years, she rose to a height equal to Martin's, earning his approval—and that of the board of directors.
After Eugene's death, Mr. Tim stayed. He even refused high-class offers that come his way and chose instead to serve Blythe as if she were his own daughter.
In public, they maintained roles of master and servant. In private, they were family.
Back in the bedroom, Mr. Tim helped Blythe onto her bed and tucked her in. She looked far calmer now.
"I'll call the doctor tomorrow. Rest well, dear. I'll be in the adjoining room—just call for me, and I'll come right away, alright?"
Blythe nodded.
"Good night, Uncle Tim…" she murmured with sleepy eyes.
"Good night, princess."
He kissed her head gently and retired to the next room.
AT THE SKYSOUL MAIN OFFICE ROOM.
"WHO ARE THEY?!"
The thunderous shout ricocheted through the office floor. Silence swallowed the space.
This was the first thing Julian demanded the moment she entered the room where Martin and Dante were already waiting. Guards stepped aside, leaving only the three of them in the tense space.
"From the reports… We missed him. After the lights went off, we couldn't trace them," Dante said, remembering the chaos of the night.
When the room had surrounded Joker and Blythe, time felt frozen; nothing had moved but breath.
Time passed by seconds but it felt like centuries.
Then Joker had looked at Blythe—one last look only she understood.
He snapped his fingers, The lights vanished.
Everything fell into darkness.
But everyone came back to sense three seconds later, the lights came back—but the Joker and his men were gone, leaving chaos behind.
"One year ago—the ship heist. Then the station replacements. Three months ago—goods stolen from the auction. And now this…a pre planned assassination" Julian said sharply. "This isn't random. This is the same person, right?"
Dante hesitated.
"Don't tell me this is some petty gang war, Mr. Dante," she said, cutting him coldly.
"Julian, calm down— I didn't know they would strike. I was shocked too. And yes… it's the same person. I'm trying to handle them but—"
"But they don't seem easy to handle, huh? Is that what you're going to say? Have they become strong, or have you become too old, Mr. Dante?"
Dante's face darkened. Neither backed down until Martin's firm voice cut in:
"Enough. Both of you. Now is not the time for fighting. We need to know what they want."
"My daughter—YOUR granddaughter—was almost attacked," Julian slammed her palm on the table. "And you want me to calm?! I don't even know who they are, but I know they will return. So I want to know—
Who. Are. They."
Martin stiffened at the mention of Blythe. He hadn't seen it happen, but he could imagine it all too clearly.
"They had already made their intentions clear. As I told it's time you let Ron lead your operations, Dante. And with your permission, I need to see my daughter. Good day, gentlemen."
She left without looking back.
The two old men fell into deep thoughts, they sat still in their chairs. After some time
"As Julian said—they made their purpose very clear," Martin continued. "They infiltrated a private party. Sky Soul, of all places. I think you need to take them seriously now."
Dante clenched his jaw, his fists tightened.
"They attacked while I wasn't present. So their target isn't me… nor my family… but you— the Falcons.
And if my family gets hurt in the crossfire, Dante…" Martin voice chillingly calm, "we'll have to reconsider our deal."
"What do you mean, Martin?" Dante surged from his chair.
"Handle this before Julian uncovers anything. She's already started digging. If she finds out… you know what will happen."
"If she finds out, it's not just me. You're tied to this too," Dante sneered. "So what happens then?"
Martin met his eyes coldly.
"I gave you one chance because of old loyalty. There will be no second. I will not lose my loved ones again because of your mistakes…
And I will do what I must."
Both of their demeanors were shrouded in mystery, as though each of them was concealing an earth-shaking truth behind carefully crafted expressions.
Somewhere in Europe, inside an elite high-rise bar perched on the top floor of a towering building,
a man dressed in a casual blue suit lounged on a leather sofa. He sipped his drink slowly while puffing on a cigar, smoke curling lazily around his sharp, handsome features—features softened just enough by unmistakable Mexican undertones.
His light-brown eyes remained half-lidded, narrowed as if guarding his thoughts from the world. From time to time, his fingers brushed over the stubble on his chin, a quiet, habitual gesture betraying contemplation.
Beside him sat another man, clad in a gray T-shirt and black jeans, his tall frame wrapped in a long black coat. His appearance was effortlessly classy and stylish.
Wolf-cut hair brushed the nape of his neck, framing a face that was undeniably handsome—smiley, almost harmless at first glance, the kind that belonged to a charming playboy.
A glass of whiskey rested loosely in his hand as he listened to the reports delivered by the men standing nearby.
Yet despite the elegance of the setting and the calmness of their posture, there was one thing that did not fit.
Their expressions were grim.
"Okay, you can leave," said the man in the gray T-shirt, setting his glass down on the table with deliberate calm.
The guards nodded and withdrew.
"We lost ten of our men," he continued, turning to the man in the blue suit. There was a pleasant tone to his voice, smooth and controlled—but it carried no trace of a smile. "And… yeah. The plan failed."
The man in the blue suit crushed his cigar into the ashtray, exhaling a thick stream of smoke. "And what's their count?" he asked, his voice rough and hoarse from tobacco.
His accent—a seamless blend of Spanish and English—only added to his presence. It wasn't polished, but it was magnetic. That was his charm.
The man in the gray T-shirt raised an eyebrow. "Is that what's important right now, Hector?"
Hector met his gaze calmly.
"Twelve, maybe?" the man in gray added after a pause.
A faint smile curved at the corner of Hector's lips, rising from deep in his throat. "That means we're two points ahead."
The man in gray—Alex—frowned, confusion knitting his brows. "Hector, we failed the plan," he snapped quietly. "Just when we were this—this close." He gestured with his thumb and forefinger, barely an inch apart.
"Relax, Alex," Hector said evenly. Then, as his eyes scanned the room, a note of curiosity crept into his voice. "Where is he?"
Alex's frown deepened at the mention. "On the rooftop."
Hector's smile returned, slow and knowing. "Then let's go ask him ourselves."
Both Alex and Hector made their way to the rooftop, accompanied by the same guard who had reported earlier to Alex—the tall Black African man, Ben.
As they reached the rooftop, they saw a lone figure standing near the chopper landing spot. The sight was instantly familiar. The same red-and-green suit. The same unsettling aura.
Only this time, his face was uncovered. He stood with his back to them, hands tucked into his pockets, staring at the moonlit sky as though nothing else in the world existed.
They approached him slowly. Alex bent down and picked up the mask that lay discarded on the ground.
"Joker, what are you doing here?" Hector asked casually, though his tone carried quiet caution.
The man didn't flinch.
Hector and Alex exchanged a brief glance before looking back at him. There was still a noticeable distance between them.
"Joker?" Hector called again.
Silence stretched.
"Dwight!" Hector finally said, calling him by his real name.
That was when the man spoke—slowly, smoothly.
"You know…" he began, his voice calm yet heavy, "that night too, the sky was bathed in moonlight. The stars shimmered just like her eyes…"
He paused, as if reliving it.
There was a Romanian crispness woven into his English, clean and deliberate, giving him an unyielding charm.
"In prison, whenever I missed her, I used to stare at the full moon—it fuels the fire in me– looking at the same sky. Even after getting out… I still do it. Every time I miss her."
His voice was so deep it felt like it brushed against the ears, almost a whisper that lingered. It carried nostalgia, raw emotion layered beneath control. His abyss-dark eyes glimmered faintly, yet never once left the stars.
Hector and Alex stepped closer.
"So…" Alex said flatly, unsurprised, "you miss her now."
"Don't tell me you met her?" Hector asked—not seeking an answer, but watching closely for a crack, a sign, something to confirm his suspicion.
"Oh, come on," Alex snapped, irritation finally breaking through. "Is this really the time for this? Why don't we talk about tonight's shit instead?"
"Relax, Alex," Hector and Dwight said simultaneously.
Alex exhaled sharply, forcing himself to calm down. Hector placed a steady hand on his shoulder.
"You met her," Hector said at last—not as a question, but as an undeniable fact.
Dwight turned his face.
His features were sharp and deeply set, as if carved not by care, but by fate and time itself. His eyes were abyssal black—bottomless, predatory, capable of pulling in whatever they chose to fix upon. His skin was pale, almost ghostly beneath the moonlight.
His Adam's apple accentuated the hard, muscular lines of his face. Bathed in silver light, he appeared calm, almost gentlemanly—but only those who truly knew him understood the madness coiled beneath that serenity.
Dwight's gaze shifted to Ben—calm, sharp, lethal.
Ben immediately lowered his head, swallowing hard as fear crawled down his spine.
"Have you met her? But when?" Alex blurted out, shock unmistakable in his voice.
Dwight's silence was answer enough.
"You don't mean… she's the one?" Hector's expression darkened, his tone turning grave.
"No wonder you couldn't find her all these years," Hector continued, realization settling in.
"Who? … Oh." Alex paused, then scoffed. "That girl who ruined tonight's plan. I heard she's from Whitmoré."
Dwight's lips curved into a soft, almost sweet smile—but it faded instantly when Hector spoke again.
"She's the princess. The heir of the Whitmoré clan. They protect her so fiercely that there isn't even a single photograph of her anywhere." Hector chuckled. "Thanks to some creepy bastard who scared her so badly, she can't even step outside anymore."
Dwight's body stiffened—frenzy flashing beneath his calm exterior.
"Wait—wait—wait," Alex stammered. "You're talking about the same person I'm thinking of, right? Blythe Whitmoré?"
His mouth fell open as realization struck.
"Close your mouth, kid," Hector muttered, nudging Alex's chin upward.
"Pffff—" Alex burst out laughing. "So that's why the Whitmorés sent him to prison! I thought they were backing the Falcons. Turns out you were fucked right from the beginning!"
Alex laughed uncontrollably. Hector turned his face away, but the slight tremor in his shoulders betrayed him.
Dwight's expression darkened—his aura shifting, thickening, suffocating the air around them.
"Is it funny?" Dwight asked, smiling brightly.
Only those closest to him knew the truth: the brighter Dwight smiled, the closer someone was to death.
Hector cleared his throat, attempting to stop Alex from provoking what was essentially Satan himself. But Alex was a born troublemaker—how could he possibly resist teasing the one man who always stood above him in everything?
Hector shoved Alex toward Ben and turned serious.
"Dwight," he said quietly. "How do you plan to get her? She's a Whitmoré. Are you really willing to throw away eight years of hard work?"
His voice hardened.
"Remember the betrayal. Remember the prison."
Dwight's face faltered—conflict rippling across it.
Alex stopped laughing, watching intently.
They had both seen it—Dwight's obsession, his yearning. At times, witnessing his madness, they prayed that girl would never cross his path.
Because if she did—
She would be the most unfortunate yet most lucky.
If anyone were asked who among the three was the most cruel, both Hector and Alex would, without hesitation, think of Dwight.
That was why he was called the Joker.
The one who flipped fate—for better or worse.
The air felt unnaturally still. Even though Hector was the head of the gang, Dwight's words carried equal weight—because he was the founder of the organization.
DECARD.
"Our enmity is with the Falcons, not the Whitmorés. So we stick to the plan—just with a few minor changes," Dwight said calmly, as if everything were still firmly under control.
Listening to him, a heavy unease settled in both Hector's and Alex's guts.
"And what changes would that be?" Alex asked, raising his left brow.
Dwight only offered them a light, almost refreshing smile—the kind of smile he always wore right before doing the unthinkable.
Then he turned and walked away, leaving them behind.
Hector and Alex stood there, frowning in helpless silence.
"You sure he isn't going to change the entire plan?" Alex muttered, watching Dwight disappear.
"¡Chingá, todo se jodió!" Hector cursed under his breath.
Alex nodded in grim agreement.
Next morning, at the Whitmoré mansion
"Miss, the doctor is waiting for you in the living room," Linda informed Blythe softly, as if she could already sense the turmoil in her thoughts.
Blythe set her cup down slowly, her gaze drifting toward the unusually clouded sky outside the tall windows. A strange unease coiled in her chest, heavy and unexplainable.
"Tell Mr. Tim to guide him to the study room. I'll be joining shortly," she said gently, dismissing Linda with a faint nod.
Some time later, Julian returned to the mansion.
She was still dressed in the same clothes from the previous night, her appearance betraying the fact that she had come straight from work. Fatigue clung to her like a shadow.
As she stepped into the hall, she found Linda waiting for her.
"Where are they?" Julian asked immediately.
"Madam, Miss is with Dr. Eric in the study room. Mr. Tim is with them as well," Linda replied respectfully.
Julian frowned at once.
"Why is Eric here?" Her voice tightened. "Did something happen to Blythe?"
Without waiting for an answer, she hurried toward the staircase.
"Madam, please don't worry," Linda followed her anxiously. "Nothing serious has happened. Miss only wanted to speak with him, so Mr. Tim called the doctor."
Julian reached the study room and found Mr. Tim standing outside.
"What's wrong with Blythe?" she asked him at once. "Why is Eric here?"
"Nothing serious, Madam," Mr. Tim reassured her calmly. "After last night's incident, Miss seemed triggered. She didn't sleep well—nightmares, mostly. I felt calling Dr. Eric would be better than giving her medication."
Julian froze for a moment.
Muted voices drifted from inside the study room, low and indistinct. She closed her eyes briefly and let out a slow breath, relief easing the tension in her shoulders.
After a moment of thought, she turned away.
"I'll freshen up," she said quietly, and walked toward her room.
The session ran for nearly two hours.
Blythe personally saw the doctor off and then walked toward the living room. There, she found Julian dressed in casual clothes, seated on the sofa—one hand signing documents, the other holding a phone to her ear. A cup of coffee sat on the table before her, still steaming, untouched. Secretary Jennifer sat beside her, efficiently handing over files one after another.
"Mother!" Blythe called out as she walked toward her—no, almost rushed.
Julian turned immediately. She handed the file back to Jennifer, spoke a few quick instructions, and ended the call without delay.
"You came. Come here, puddie," Julian said gently. "Did you finish your session?"
Blythe moved closer. Jennifer stood up, nodded politely at her, and Blythe returned the gesture before the secretary excused herself.
"Yes, Mother. Eric said it's nothing serious—just gave me some calming medicine." Blythe paused, studying Julian's face. "How are you, Mother? Yesterday we didn't get a chance to talk at the venue… and after coming home, you didn't return. Is everything okay?"
"I'm fine, puddie. Everything is fine," Julian replied calmly.
But her eyes turned red—just slightly, just enough. Blythe didn't notice. Julian still felt that fear crawling under her skin—the same fear she had felt years ago for Eugene. The image of Blythe in that masked man's arms replayed in her mind like a wound that refused to close.
"Mother is really… .. . . Really sorry for everything that you have gone through"
She regretted taking Blythe there. Deeply.
But tradition demanded it. Family customs demanded it.
If it were up to her, she would never expose her daughter to gatherings like that.
"Mother… don't say sorry," Blythe said suddenly, her voice breaking as she hugged her. "It's not your fault. Please."
"Blythe," Julian said, holding her firmly, "don't cry." Her tone was strict—but not harsh. Never harsh with her. "What did I teach you?"
Blythe sniffed, pulling back as she wiped her tears.
"T-that… never cry when you're hurt badly," she said, her voice choked. "Because it makes you weaker."
"And?" Julian prompted, though her own voice trembled beneath the control.
"Instead… fight them," Blythe said softly. "And root them out."
"Good, puddie." Julian patted her head gently. "Never give them a chance to rule you. Got that?"
Blythe nodded.
Yet her mind remained in chaos.
No matter how hard she tried to fight the fear, she couldn't overcome it.
Or… overcome him.
"It's mother's fault—what happened yesterday. My negligence allowed them to act," Julian said quietly. "But because of what happened, I've realized one thing. I can't stay with you forever, nor can I always be there to protect you. So I've decided something—something I should have done a long time ago."
Her words were interrupted by the sound of footsteps echoing through the hall.
Blythe turned toward the source of the sound—and froze.
A man.
Jennifer was leading him toward them.
He was dressed in a casual white suit, a black turtleneck beneath it clinging perfectly to his frame. His figure felt unsettlingly familiar—the same deep contours, the same solid, disciplined build, the same commanding aura. There was something in the way he walked, as if the space around him bent subtly to his control.
Blythe felt an undefined sense of familiarity stir within her.
And then she met his eyes.
Dark. Abyssal. Arresting.
Her eyes widened involuntarily. For a fleeting second, his gaze gleamed—something sharp, something knowing—before he calmly lowered his eyes again, masking it so quickly it could have been imagined.
"Meet Dwight," Julian said evenly. "Your new personal bodyguard."
Dwight inclined his head in a formal bow, precise and restrained, the gesture of a man trained in etiquette—and something far more dangerous.
But Blythe's mind was no longer in the room.
She didn't know why—yet suddenly she remembered the last look the Joker had given her the previous night.
A look that whispered without words:
I'll come back, sweetheart.
Dwight's heart soared, suspended somewhere between heaven and ruin.
His angel, his hell, his everything stood merely two steps away from him.
He wanted to pull her into his arms, to feel her petite frame against his chest, to breathe in her scent—
but he restrained himself with brutal control.
Not yet.
It isn't time yet.
He noticed the flicker in her expression, the distant gaze, and for a reckless heartbeat he almost leaned forward—almost kissed her—if not for the thin thread of sanity he was clinging to.
Instead, he turned his focus elsewhere, grounding himself.
Did she recognize me?
Should I say hi?
Get a grip, for God's sake.
Once again, both were lost—each trapped in their own fantasy, their own storm.
Could she escape her nightmare? Him.
Could he trap his prey? Her.
Little Theatre at Backside :
Alex stumbled down the stairs, yawning wide, his steps unsteady as sleep still clung to him like a second skin.
The living room came into view—and so did Hector.
Hector sat composed on the armchair, legs crossed, sipping a matcha latte, while reading the morning newspaper. He was dressed immaculately in a tailored blue suit, every inch the picture of control.
"Morning," Alex muttered, dropping his weight onto the sofa like a sack of bones.
Hector didn't look up. He merely lifted his cup in acknowledgment.
"Ben!" Alex shouted with his eyes still closed.
Ben emerged from the kitchen moments later, holding a tall glass filled with a green liquid.
it's a detox drink.
Hector's lips twitched as he glanced sideways. "Are you a girl now?" he scoffed. "Detox drinks? Skincare? Listen, kid—real men go to the gym." He flexed his biceps for emphasis.
Alex cracked one eye open and raised his glass lazily. "Says the guy, drinking from a Hello kitty cup."
Hector shot him a glare.
"Cats are cute, what does brat like you know?" Hector muttered, setting the cup down with dignity.
A pause followed.
Hector's brows slowly furrowed. "Where is he?" he asked, more to himself than anyone else. "We're late—and there's still no sign of Dwight."
Alex shrugged. "Haven't seen him."
That was enough.
Hector's gut tightened. He didn't like this feeling—not one bit. "Ben," he ordered sharply, "check his room."
Ben nodded and hurried off.
Minutes passed.
Then—footsteps. Fast. Uneven.
Ben came running back, a slip of paper clenched tightly in his trembling hand. He misstepped on the last stair, barely catching himself.
Hector calmly turned a page of the newspaper. "What is it now?"
Ben swallowed hard. His hand shook. "It's… it's from Dwight."
Hector sighed. "Of course it is. Read it. Out loud."
Alex giggled, already sensing disaster.
Ben took a breath."Find me in the place I yearned for.The moon I always want.The winner gets to ride my girl."
Silence fell.
Hector's expression darkened instantly. Dwight never—never—let anyone touch his girl(his bike).
"A place he yearned for…" Hector murmured. "His moon…"
Alex froze mid-sip.
pfffft—
Alex spat his drink across the room at the exact moment Hector crushed the newspaper into a tight ball.
They turned to each other in horror.
"Whitmore Mansion," they said in unison.
Then—
"NOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!DWIGHT!!!"
Their voices echoed through the house as realization hit them like a wrecking ball.
Their worst fear had come true.