The dashboard clock glowed a soft neon green, reading 6:00 PM. The storm had passed, leaving behind a sky the color of a fresh bruise—deep purples and angry blues swirling together as night began to strangle the day.
Damien steered the GTR through the wrought-iron gates of the Thompson Estate. It was a fortress disguised as a home, a sprawling mansion of white stone and marble that rivaled the White House in both size and opulence. It sat on a hill overlooking the Potomac, isolated and grand, a monument to the power of the Prime Minister.
He parked the car on the circular driveway, the gravel crunching beneath the tires. He killed the engine, and silence rushed in to fill the void.
Damien stepped out, smoothing his casual tactical shirt. He looked up at the looming structure.
'Seems nothing changed here, huh,' Damien thought, his eyes tracing the familiar architecture. 'The same neoclassical designs. The same color of the house accents... purple. Always purple.'
He walked towards the side garden, a habit from years ago when he would sneak in to surprise Melissa. There, tending to a bed of rain-battered hydrangeas, was an old man with a back hunched like a question mark.
"Ohh, Sir Damien. You finally arrived," the old man wheezed, straightening up with a groan of exertion.
"It's been a while, Mr. Biorgia," Damien said, a genuine smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You still haven't changed for years, huh? Still wearing the same outfit."
Mr. Biorgia looked down at his faded green overalls and the patched tweed cap. He laughed, a sound like dry leaves skittering on pavement.
"Well, why would I? After all, this is the same outfit that the Young Lady gave to me."
The gardener's smile faltered, turning bitter at the edges. He touched the brim of his cap, his eyes misty. "She said green suited me. Said I looked like a proper English gardener."
Damien nodded respectfully. Mr. Biorgia had been the head gardener here for thirty years. He was a fixture, as much a part of the estate as the foundations.
"You should go inside," Mr. Biorgia said, gesturing with his trowel toward the main doors. "The Madam and Master Michael awaits you. They've been pacing."
Damien laughed softly. "Still calling Michael 'Master,' ay? If he hears that, he will literally cringe. Just call him boss, or sir. He hates the feudal lord vibe."
Mr. Biorgia shook his head stubbornly. "I call him Master because I owe him my life many times. And for helping my family more times than I could even count. When my granddaughter needed that surgery... he didn't even ask. He just paid. So, he is Master Michael to me until I die."
Damien sighed, knowing he couldn't win this argument. "Fine. Just don't blame me when that old man cringes while you call him 'Master.'"
Mr. Biorgia nodded. He shuffled over to a potting bench and picked up a prepared arrangement. It was a bundle of Geraniums—deep, vibrant purple—the same strain Melissa had loved. Beside it sat a heavy leather handbag that clinked with the distinct sound of glass.
"Here," Mr. Biorgia said, handing them over. "I prepared the flowers as you asked. And the... ammunition."
Damien took the flowers in his right hand and the heavy bag in his left. Inside were five bottles of Harlan Estate wine—vintages that cost more than a sergeant's yearly salary.
"We arrived, sir," Mr. Biorgia said, looking past Damien toward the darkening sky. "And... say hi to the Young Lady for me when you finally arrive in Heaven, alright?"
Damien froze. He looked at the old man sharply. "How did you—?"
He cut himself off. 'You know what? I bet Michael already told you what I said, huh.'
The gardener laughed softly and nodded, turning back to his hydrangeas. "That old man Michael should just keep what I told him between us. Hah, whatever. Mr. Biorgia is family. That must be why."
Damien watched him for a second, then turned toward the house. He looked down at his left hand, the one holding the wine. It was trembling slightly.
'Seems I'm nervous, huh,' he realized. 'I've faced dragons and demons, but facing Sasha Thompson... that's a different class of monster.'
He walked up the steps and pushed open the heavy oak doors. The foyer was empty, echoing with the ticking of a grandfather clock. He moved toward the Dining Hall.
He pushed the doors open.
At the far end of the long mahogany table stood Michael Thompson, looking pale and anxious. Beside him stood Sasha Thompson. Her blonde hair was tied back in a severe bun, identical to the style Melissa used to wear in combat. Her blue eyes—eyes that usually held warmth—were currently burning with a cold, blue fire.
Michael flinched when Damien entered.
'Seems I'm really fucked, huh,' Damien thought, bracing himself.
"Good evening, Mom, Dad," Damien said, his voice steady despite the tension. "It's been a while seeing both of you."
He addressed them both, a sign of respect, though he had just seen Michael hours ago.
Sasha didn't speak. She moved.
She crossed the distance between them with the speed of a viper. Before Damien could blink, before he could even think to dodge, her hand connected with his cheek.
-SLAP!
The sound echoed through the cavernous hall like a gunshot. Damien's head snapped to the side. The sting was immediate and hot, radiating across his face.
"Do you have a death wish, huh?!" Sasha screamed, her voice cracking with raw emotion. "Do you really want to die that badly?!"
Michael rushed forward, trying to intervene. "Honey, calm down! We can talk about this!"
"Don't 'honey' me!" Sasha whipped around, glaring at the Prime Minister of the United States with a look that could melt steel.
"EEIIKKK!" Michael flinched, physically recoiling.
He knew how terrifying his wife could be. Melissa hadn't just inherited her father's hair color; she had inherited her mother's "Villainess" personality. That commanding aura, that terrifying tomboyish aggression... it all came from Sasha.
Damien slowly turned his head back to face her. His cheek was throbbing, a red handprint already forming.
He looked her in the eye and said just two words.
"I'm sorry."
He didn't try to defend himself. He didn't try to explain the tactical advantages or the political necessity. He didn't offer excuses.
Sasha stared at him, her chest heaving. She had already heard the details from Michael—the SSS+ Dungeon, the solo mission, the suicide run. But hearing it from Michael was one thing. Seeing Damien standing there, with that dead look in his eyes, was another.
She wanted to hear him say why. She wanted to know why he was so eager to throw his life away. She knew the pain of losing a child—she lived it every day. Even Michael, with his tough-guy facade, couldn't move on. But Sasha held onto life. She held onto it with a desperate grip because she had promised Melissa, on that final phone call before the raid, that she would live long enough to see her grandchildren.
That promise was broken by fate, but Sasha still held to the spirit of it. She lived to remember.
Sasha began to cry. The anger drained out of her, leaving only a hollow devastation.
"Why?!" she sobbed, stepping forward and cupping Damien's face with her trembling hands. "Sniff... just why are you so eager to die, my dear child? Why can't you stay with us?"
Damien didn't reply. He stayed silent. He couldn't find the words. If he tried to reason with her, if he tried to lie, he might falter. He might break. He couldn't say no to Mel's mom. If she asked him to stay, really begged him... he might just be weak enough to do it.
So he stayed silent, letting his silence be the answer. Because I can't live without her.
Michael, sensing that the situation was teetering on the edge of a breakdown, stepped in.
"How about both of us sit down and talk about this, alright honey?" Michael said gently, guiding Sasha toward a chair. "And look... Damien brought our daughter's favorite flower. And look at the bag."
Michael gestured to the leather bag Damien was still clutching.
"He brought Harlan Estate. The 2015 vintage. An expensive wine we both love to drink, honey."
Michael knew exactly what Damien was doing. Bringing five bottles of Harlan Estate wasn't a gift; it was a bribe. It was the only way to silence Sasha. She loved wine—even the cheap stuff—but she had a weakness for the good stuff. It was Damien's way of saying, "Please, drink this and stop asking me questions I can't answer."
Sasha wiped her tears with the back of her hand. She looked at the bag, then at Damien. She snatched the handbag from his grip with surprising strength.
She hugged the bag to her chest like a teddy bear.
"Sniff, sniff," she mumbled, eyeing the bottles. "I will stop questioning now. But don't think I won't question you later. Hmph!"
The tension in the room snapped. Michael let out a nervous laugh, and Damien offered a weak, relieved smile. Sasha sat down, still glaring at them, but the murderous intent had faded, replaced by a sullen protectiveness over the wine.
"No wonder Melissa loved wine," Damien murmured, rubbing his stinging cheek. "Even the cheapest swill. She got that from Sasha. While her tough-guy personality... she definitely inherited that from you, Dad."
Michael sighed, pulling out a chair. "Hahahaha. You really know Sasha's favorites. You successfully bribed her. I thought you would fail. After all, she is hardheaded. Just like Melissa was."
Damien laughed, a dry sound, and handed the bouquet of purple flowers to Michael.
"I thought you would give this to Melissa. That's why you brought it," Michael said, taking the flowers.
"No," Damien said softly. "I intend to give this bouquet of Geraniums to both of you. For the house."
Michael accepted them, burying his nose in the petals. "Same smell," he whispered. "Thanks."
"You're welcome, Dad."
"This brat!" Michael shook his head, placing the flowers on the table.
Damien sat in the chair across from Michael. It was the seat opposite the empty chair at the head of the table—Melissa's chair.
He stared at the empty space. In his mind's eye, he could see her. He imagined Melissa sitting there, leaning back with that arrogant, confident smirk she always wore. He imagined her teasing him, flashing the strap of her black bra just to see him blush, winking at him while her parents weren't looking.
'Damn teaser,' Damien thought, a pang of longing hitting him so hard it almost winded him. 'Even in the gym, she was relentless. Always pushing my buttons. I swear, in the afterlife, I'm going to give you a knuckle sandwich. So many times that your head will have a massive lump.'
He snorted, a laugh escaping before he could stop it.
Michael looked up, a question mark practically floating above his head. "What's funny?"
Damien shook his head, composing himself. "Nothing."
Michael shrugged and turned his attention to his wife, who was busy uncorking one of the bottles with practiced efficiency.
Dinner was a surreal affair. Servants brought out courses of food that tasted like ash in Damien's mouth, but he forced himself to eat. Michael kept the conversation flowing, desperate to avoid the silence. He asked about the Wombat Squad, about Ricky, about Commander McArthur.
"Is he still the same stingy old bastard?" Michael asked, cutting a piece of steak.
"Worse," Damien nodded. "He's counting paperclips now."
They both laughed. Sasha, meanwhile, was silently working her way through the first bottle of Harlan Estate. The wine had loosened her shoulders, but her eyes remained sharp.
When the plates were cleared, Sasha finally spoke. She was sober enough to be dangerous.
"So," she said, placing her glass down with a definitive clink. "What is inside that head of yours? Why did you choose that decision, huh?"
The air in the room grew heavy again.
Michael sighed. He gestured to the butler standing in the shadows. "Alfred. The barrier."
The butler nodded. He pressed a panel on the wall. A low hum filled the room as a military-grade sound barrier activated, sealing the dining room off from the rest of the house. No bugs, no eavesdroppers, no spies.
Damien stayed silent for a while, swirling the untouched wine in his glass.
"I really can't escape being questioned, huh," he murmured.
"No," Sasha said firmly.
"Fine," Damien sighed. He looked up, his black eyes meeting Sasha's blue ones. "I came up with that decision to save my squad. They have families. They have futures. I don't."
He paused, biting his lip.
"And..."
He gave Sasha a bitter, heartbroken smile.
"To join Mel."
Sasha stared at him. She looked for a lie, for hesitation. She found none. She sighed, a long, ragged sound of defeat.
It seemed he was really dead serious. There was no changing the mind of a hardhead like him. It was ridiculous, tragic, and infuriating, but she couldn't refute his logic because she felt the same pull. She understood the desire to just... stop.
"Fine," Sasha said, her voice quiet. "At the very least... die after killing many monsters in that dungeon, alright? Make them pay. And hurry up. We should visit my daughter's grave."
"But you're sober, honey. Shouldn't you rest?" Michael asked tentatively.
Sasha slowly turned her head to look at him. A vein popped in her forehead.
Michael flinched. "Never mind. We're going."
Damien watched them bickering, a strange sense of déjà vu washing over him.
'Is this really what would've happened if Mel became my wife?' he wondered. 'After all, she and her mother have the same personality. Then that's better. After all, Mel is the best girlfriend ever!'
Damien smiled to himself. It wasn't just fear of Sasha. It was admiration. Melissa was his type. She always had been.
Since he was a teenager, Damien had a specific taste. He didn't like the damsels in distress. He loved the Villainesses.
He remembered the game he used to play obsessively—The Chronicles of Adelina. It was an Otome Yuri Harem game, of all things. But there was one character who had captivated him: The Winter Monarch.
She was the "King of the Villainesses." Cold, ruthless, dominating, and tragic. When he saw the Winter Monarch on the screen, commanding armies and crushing hopes, Damien hadn't felt fear. He had felt... awakened. He got hard just looking at her—not just physically, but emotionally. He was drawn to her power, her "hotness" that came from her absolute authority.
What made Damien love the Winter Monarch was that she was the only villainess you couldn't romance. You couldn't "fix" her. You couldn't turn her good. She stuck to her ideology until the bitter end, dying tragically rather than compromising.
That was his first love. A pixelated tyrant.
But Melissa... Melissa was real. She was his Winter Monarch made flesh. She was a "Villainess" in personality—arrogant, strong, uncompromising—but she used that darkness to protect the light. She was Damien's soulmate. She was the only one who supported him, who understood the darkness inside him because she had plenty of her own.
They were meant for each other. No matter how many times destiny tried to separate them, their souls gravitated back together.
Damien snorted, looking up at the chandelier.
'Mel, I really missed you. You were my villainess. And I was your henchman.'
***
The limousine ride to the cemetery was quiet. The windows were tinted dark, shielding them from the streetlights.
When they arrived at the cemetery gates, the rain had stopped completely, leaving the air crisp and cold.
Damien got out of the limo, holding the door for Melissa's parents.
"I should have visited earlier," Michael muttered, adjusting his coat.
"You should have!" Sasha snapped, though her voice lacked heat. "You really chose responsibility over your family. Hmph!"
Damien laughed softly. Even though Melissa was the young version of Sasha, there was a key difference. Melissa would say, "Responsibility first, before family." It was the soldier in her. Sasha would always say, "Family always comes first!" It was the mother in her.
Damien watched as Michael clutched the bouquet of purple Geraniums to his chest.
'That's...'
Damien belatedly realized what was happening. Michael intended to give the bouquet to Melissa's grave. The same bouquet Damien had brought for the villa.
Damien sighed, shaking his head. 'This insufferable old man. He just took my gift to him and is regifting it to his daughter. Classic.'
The three of them walked through the silent rows of headstones. The moon peeked out from behind the clouds, casting long shadows across the wet grass.
They reached the familiar plot. The violets Damien had placed earlier were still there, beaten down by the rain but surviving.
Michael approached the headstone. He placed the Geraniums next to Damien's violets.
"Hey, Lisa," Michael whispered, using her nickname.
His voice broke. The Prime Minister crumbled.
"I really do miss you, my dear," Michael sobbed, his shoulders shaking. "I... I really still mourn your death, y'know. Instead of celebrating your birthday, it really overlaps with your death anniversary, huh?"
He fell to his knees, heedless of the mud ruining his expensive suit trousers.
"I... I always blame myself, my daughter. I know you don't want to see me blaming myself, but I... I really can't stop."
Michael continued to cry, a guttural, ugly sound of pure grief. Sasha knelt beside him, wrapping her arms around his shaking frame. She rested her head against his shoulder, looking at the cold stone.
"I still miss you too, dear," Sasha whispered, her voice trembling. "I really do. You know how hard it is when your father is busy at work, and your mother eats alone? I stare at the chair you always sat in... the dining hall feels so big without you. It really pains me to look at it."
She reached out and traced the letters of Melissa's name.
"It overlaps with your image... laughing at my banters with your dad. Sniff, sniff. I really miss you, my dear daughter. I miss you bantering with Damien, calling him an insufferable idiot. I miss arguing with you. I miss our time together, smiling at your dad's corny jokes. I miss how happy our life was while you were still alive."
Sasha choked on a sob, burying her face in Michael's coat.
"You know... it's not fair. You abandoned us first instead of us leaving you. It was really unfair. And I don't even know what to do anymore."
Melissa's parents cried together, two powerful figures reduced to weeping children by the loss of their only child.
Damien stood a few feet back. He just looked at the grave. He didn't kneel. He didn't cry.
He couldn't.
He was tired of crying. He had spent five years crying until his tear ducts were dry. He was tired of feeling the sharp stab of pain and the dull ache of loneliness. He was tired of the survivor's guilt, the thought that "he should be the one to die, not her."
He was tired of staring at the ceiling every night, counting the cracks. He was tired of the gun in his mouth, the pills in his hand, the rope around his neck, and the failures to follow through. He was tired of the drinking, the self-harm, the hollow victories.
He was tired. Just... tired of everything.
He looked at the weeping parents, then at the stone.
"I will join you soon, Mel," he spoke, his voice low and devoid of emotion. "I will join soon with you."
He turned around. He walked away into the darkness, leaving Mel's parents time to mourn their daughter. He needed to prepare. The dungeon was waiting.
'I will finally join you, Mel,' he thought, his black eyes fixed on the horizon. 'I will finally join you.'