Betrayal didn't sting.
It settled—like smoke curling through an old cathedral, clinging to the lungs, soaking into the bones. It wasn't loud, or sudden. It seeped in, quiet and certain, like the moment one realizes they're already bleeding.
Cruxius should've known.
Of course he should've.
He was the monster in this story—the one who saw every angle, who drank doubt like wine, who had never been surprised unless he allowed it.
But Lira…
She had played her role beautifully.
The dining hall flickered with golden warmth, the fireplace humming low behind him. The scent of cinnamon and charred oak drifted through the air.
His knife tapped against the plate, slow and steady.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
She stood by the cart, pale hands wrapped around the wine bottle like she might crush it.
"Sir," she said, with that perfect little smile. "Red. From Vallis vineyards. You like the dry kind, don't you?"
Cruxius studied her. The flickering firelight kissed her skin, giving it a glow he didn't care for—or at least pretended not to.
Her hair was like soft, fluffy cotton candy—the kind people couldn't help but greedily try to crush and devour instantly, unaware that her body promised a far richer sweetness only known to Cruxius.
Her golden eyes, like gleaming coins of melted gold, held a shine that men would kill to possess, unaware that these coins were engraved only with Cruxius.
Her voice trembled like wine in a glass as she poured, but her eyes never left his.
Not with fear—no.
Something else simmered there. Something cracked. Sacred.
Hatred, aged into control.
She handed him the glass. He didn't drink it.
"You're shaking," he said, voice smooth as velvet. "Excitement? Or nerves?"
Her smile twitched. "Both."
He leaned back, the chair groaning beneath him. The knife glinted between his fingers as he rotated it with idle precision.
"I suppose that makes this a special night, then."
Her eyes glistened. He caught the scent of lilac from her hair—a fragrance she never wore. The fresh polish on her nails. The nervous flutter of her throat when his gaze lingered too long.
This wasn't service. This was theatre. And he was the audience she had been dying to perform for.
Then came the whisper. "Do you remember her?"
Ah. There it was.
He didn't answer. He didn't need to.
"My sister. You killed her."
His smile was slow, cruel. The fire cracked behind him.
"You'll need to be more specific."
Her jaw clenched. "She was seventeen. A hero. People called her Neuril."
Now he remembered. Blonde. Stubborn. Idealistic. She had tried to talk him down from the skies once, all trembling speeches and bright eyes. He had crushed her under a burning building and watched the light die from her eyes like starlight swallowed by a black hole.
"She cried as you burned her alive. How can you forget her screams?" Lira's voice wavered.
"Maybe because they were not worth listening to."
"Just die!"
She lunged.
The knife was cold at first—then burning. Deep. Perfect. It sank through skin and into meat, a clean puncture just below the ribs. His breath hitched. Copper flooded his throat.
Her hands trembled. Her eyes welled. But her grip—steel.
He staggered back. Blood gushed warm down his abdomen. Knees buckled. Marble floor cracked beneath him. The world spun.
Darkness stretched its fingers across his vision.
And as it did—he laughed.
Genuinely.
Because this was it.
She had finally shown her teeth.
Then—
Black.
Nothingness. Empty, weightless. The kind of void that wraps around the soul like a blanket and makes one forget they ever existed.
And then—
Light.
Sharp white light.
'Let's return to tragedy', Several timestamps hovered in the background.
At the center of it all was him, surrounded by them.
His body now luminescent in white as his fingers pressed towards a particular timestamp before he clicked it.
It bloomed behind his eyes like sunrise through bloodied glass.
Sound returned. The low hum of the fireplace. The flames licking old stone. The scent—cinnamon and charred oak—curling through the air once again.
His hand was already tapping the knife.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
His breath caught.
He looked up—
And she entered.
Lira.
Again.
The entire scene rewound.
Hands pale and tight around the wine bottle. That same perfect smile, stitched carefully across her face.
"Sir," she began, soft. "Red. From Vallis vineyards. You like the dry kind, don't you—"
"I remember her," he said.
The words froze her.
She blinked, confused. A heartbeat passed.
He smiled, slow and knowing, watching her fingers tremble as she began to pour the wine. His eyes never left hers.
"Your sister," he said, lifting the glass. "Seventeen. A hero. They called her Neuril."
The wine was bitter, rich. Perfect. He took a long sip—longer than needed—and set the glass down.
"She cried while burning. I remember how her screams thinned at the end as she muttered something like 'forgive me, big sis, for not returning for dinner.'"
The glass overflowed in her hand. Wine spilled across the table like a thin, red ribbon. Her lips parted in stunned horror.
"You—" she whispered.
"It's funny how I regret killing her," he mused. "But what can I do? She was a fool to die for people who would forget her name before winter."
"You—how—" Her voice cracked. "I never said—"
"No," he replied, rising from his chair. "But you were about to."
He stepped toward her, each movement echoing across the stone floor. Her mask crumbled with every step.
"You wore lilac tonight," he murmured. "You never wear lilac."
She flinched.
"You painted your nails. You straightened your shoulders. You rehearsed every line."
She backed away, bumping the cart.
"You poured the wine with shaking hands. And hoped I'd mistake it for nerves. Not rage."
Her mask cracked completely.
"You wanted to kill me tonight, Lira."
She stumbled, scrambling to find the lines she hadn't rehearsed.
But he moved first.
One hand slid around her wrist—gently, like a lover. His other found her waist, guiding her stumble into his chest.
She gasped—soft, involuntary—as her body pressed to his, heartbeat frantic.
He could feel her—the scent of her, the softness of her breast. It aroused images he had grown too used to.
Her lips parted—
And he kissed her.
Not a mere brush of mouths, but deep. Dominating. His tongue pushed past her lips, already knowing every contour—whether of her mouth or lower.
She tasted of lilac. And fear. And stunned betrayal.
But what shocked her most—was the wine.
The mouthful he had taken now flowed into her, a communion of poison and memory, shared like ritual.
Her eyes widened. Her hands shoved.
She broke the kiss with a gasp, spitting wine down her chin, fury trembling on her breath.
"H-How dare you, Cruxius!"
Her fingers found the blade hidden in her apron. It flashed, aimed for his ribs.
But this time—
He was ready.
With a flick, he snatched a fork from the table. It hummed through the air—
And struck home.
Straight into her throat.
The tines pierced her vocal cords, silencing her scream into a gurgled breath. Her eyes widened, knife clattering to the floor as she clawed at her neck in stunned horror.
He exhaled. Slowly. Almost mournfully.
"Pity," he whispered, stepping forward as her light dimmed. "You were the best woman I could've ever had, Lira."
She crumpled. Graceless. Lifeless.
"What bad luck," he muttered, hands tucked into his pockets. His gaze drifted upward, thoughtful.
For a brief moment, he considered ending his life again—activating his ability to rewind time up to twenty-four hours.
Perhaps he could relive the night with her. Passionately.
But he knew she'd only try to kill him again. Eventually.
He couldn't change the inevitable.
"Come on, God," he muttered. "Just open those closed gates and send some common enemies of humanity already. Let me live in peace."
DING!
> [ SuperVillain System Activated ]