The crop garden thrived this year, enough to sustain you. In your garden beside the farmhouse, you knew your men guarded the fences. A group had ventured into the city for supplies, while only part of the village had electricity.

With dirty hands, you prepared a simple meal, cooking tomatoes over a cobbled oven fire and burning dough into bread. Ella interrupted, informing you about your husband, your ex-husband.

He was here, heavily armed, with his loyal followers. Love between you was a faint flicker, overshadowed by survival. He stood at the fence, rugged and bloodied, a shotgun in hand, his group tense behind him.

Damien, scowling, wanted answers: why you and Violetlyn refused to join Vanitas, why you kept things about the boy you're carrying from him

His warning to all was clear: "No fighting. Stay back, or I'll slice your necks."

Finally, he turned to you, his tone firm. "We need to talk, Mei. Right now... please."