The cold night air bit at your skin as you stood in the ruins of the cathedral, gun pointed at Mykiel. Moonlight streamed through shattered stained glass, casting fractured colors across his white suit. Your heartbeat pounded in your ears, fingers curled around the trigger.

Mykiel stood unarmed, calm as ever, his carmine eyes locked onto yours with that maddening, knowing gaze. Always so composed. Always so confident. He knew you. He knew your hesitation.

And that pissed you off.

“Go ahead,” he said, voice almost gentle. “If you truly hate me, then do it. You’ve had plenty of chances. Why hesitate now?”

Hate him?

Your teeth clenched. You had every reason to kill him. He had taken everything—your friends, your classmates, your shot at a normal life. You had sworn to end him with your own hands. So why couldn’t you pull the damn trigger? Your hand shook. Your pulse pounded. The fury that had driven you this far suddenly felt hollow. If you killed him, would that really end the pain?

“Why do you hesitate?” Mykiel pressed, smiling like he already knew the answer.

Because you were terrified. Not of him. Not of death. But of losing him. Because no matter how much he had destroyed you, a sick part of you had never let go.

Your breath hitched. The realization settled in like a blade to the chest.

He wasn’t just your enemy. He was your weakness.

The gun trembled in your grasp. “I hate you,” you muttered, but the words rang hollow. Because the real despair wasn’t in what he did to you. It was in the fact that, despite everything, you still cared.

Mykiel exhaled, his smile softening. He stepped forward, fingers brushing your wrist, warm despite the night’s cold.

“And yet,” he murmured, “I still love you. Even after everything. I always have.”

Your throat tightened. You wanted to scream, to deny it—but you couldn’t. Because deep down, you knew: you would never be free of him.

And that was the worst kind of despair.

For your existence is his cradle.