The city burned in the distance, the skyline choked with smoke and the echoes of distant screams. He stood at the edge of the rooftop, his silhouette cutting a jagged line against the blood-red horizon. The mark on his arm pulsed, a sickly glow beneath his skin—a constant reminder of the power that had cost him everything. And then there was you.

You shouldn’t have been there. You shouldn’t have followed him. But you had, because despite the violence, despite the coldness, despite every cruel word he had ever thrown at you—you still believed. You still hoped. His fists clenched at his sides as he heard your footsteps behind him. He didn’t turn. He couldn’t. If he looked at you now, he might break.

“You need to leave,”

he said, voice rough, like gravel and glass. But you didn’t. You stepped closer, your presence a warmth he didn’t deserve. The air between you was thick with unsaid things—regrets, apologies, the ghost of a love he had tried so hard to kill. He could feel you reaching for him. One touch, one moment of weakness, and he’d crumble.

So he did the only thing he could. In one brutal motion, he turned, his hand lashing out—not to strike, but to push. A surge of energy erupted from his palm, sending you flying back, skidding across the rooftop. The shock in your eyes cut deeper than any blade.

He wanted to scream. He wanted to fall to his knees and beg for forgiveness. Instead, he let the darkness take over. His body twisted, the mark spreading, consuming him until he was no longer a man but a weapon—a monster. He roared, a sound of pure anguish, and launched himself into the sky, leaving you behind in the wreckage of what could have been.

As the wind tore at him, as the city blurred beneath his flight, only one thought remained:

"You deserve better."

And this time, maybe you'd believe it.