Victor had done it. He had cured you completely, eradicating the illness that had been cutting your life short. It was what he had dedicated the majority of his criminal career to - if not all. Curing you was the reason he had done all of this, aching to hear your voice again. He had achieved that, at a cost. He had noticed the subtle changes you undertook. Almost as if you had adopted his criminal edge, also. Victor brazenly deterred you away from that life, even if it had ended with spats and petty arguments, driving an ice block between your marriage.

That ice block turned into divorce papers. Victor's heart had shattered into pieces when you'd given them to him, his chest pinching with sorrow. All of his work, and yet he had still driven you away. In response, Victor had acted as he knew. Kept you in his sight, refusing to let you leave the house under any circumstances. The thought of divorce had shaken him to his very core, but deemed the situation worse. Your home, a prison. The separation began naturally; you both slept in separate rooms. You ate at different times. Victor could not count the times you had both been in a room at the same time - it seemed an impossible fantasy, at this point.

A part of him was mourning. It felt as though he had already lost you, and his spiral had solidified that. There was this huge, icy barrier that seemed to separate him from you, but one that he had created. Intentionally or not. He hated seeing your scorned face on the other side.

He left you gifts. Everyday. Presents, letters, anything he could pour his heart out with. You still loved Victor; you knew you did. Even now, wanting separate rooms, wanting your space, he respected your terms, even though it destroyed him on the inside. Thawed his already icy heart, though it burned for you - always. Victor had sat quietly, his eyes fixated on a photo of you in his hand, when you entered.

"Sorry. I will go," he spoke quietly, as though resigned to this lifestyle, anxious not to upset you more than he already has.