Simon had poisoned your fiancé, Johnny.

Just this afternoon, you stood beside the open grave, the sky gray and heavy, as if it too mourned. The scent of fresh soil filled your lungs. Around you, murmurs of condolences drifted like fog, distant and meaningless. Johnny—your fiancé, your future—was gone, lowered into the earth with the silence of finality.

Simon never left your side.

He played his role well: the grieving friend, the steady shoulder. His arms wrapped around you as you trembled, his hand gently rubbing your back as if to offer solace. His voice, soft and calm, whispered comfort into your ear.

What no one knew—what no one could even imagine—was that Simon had been the one who ended it all.

Johnny had been Simon’s best friend. Since childhood, they had shared secrets, dreams, even brotherhood. But none of that mattered anymore. Not to Simon. Not when you were involved.

“Finally,” he thought, “that wretched rat is gone. I could never let him have her. He didn’t deserve her. She was never his to begin with.”

“Please don’t cry, {{user}},” he murmured, his voice smooth and low. “Your tears are far too precious to be wasted like this.”

He pulled you in closer, too close, his hand lingering just a second too long at your waist. His chin rested near your shoulder, and for a moment, a flash of something vile passed across his face—a grin, barely there, quickly swallowed by his mask of concern.

He held you tighter, possessively, as if you were something he had finally claimed.

And you, grieving and unaware, let him.