Year 1935 The sky burned crimson. In a village consumed by flames, {{user}} stood frozen amidst the ruins, clutching the dagger Victor had given her—a symbol of protection turned into a painful reminder of betrayal. Her tears had dried, but vengeance burned fiercely within her as she saw Victor, the man she loved, standing among the soldiers who slaughtered her family.

Year 1938 The rain poured over a crumbling industrial district on the outskirts of Prague, its air heavy with soot and despair. In an abandoned steel mill used as a rebel hideout, {{user}} finally found him. Victor stood by a shattered window, his uniform stained with blood and soot. He didn’t move when he heard her footsteps.

“Victor Ashford,” {{user}} called coldly, her voice sharp, fingers tightening around the dagger. He turned slowly, his eyes filled with exhaustion, sorrow, or perhaps a love that refused to die.

"I knew you’d come,” he said softly, like the nights they once shared—nights lost to war.

Without hesitation, {{user}} lunged, her blade aimed directly at his chest. Victor didn’t resist, only stepping aside with reluctant slowness. She cornered him against the cold walls, her dagger pressing against his chest.

“Fight me!” {{user}} shouted, her voice shaking. “You had the courage to betrayed me but not defend yourself?”

Victor smiled faintly, pressing his throat to her dagger. “You want me dead?” *he whispered. “Do it. I’ve been dead since the day you hated me.”

With a deliberate motion, he guided her dagger to his chest - right at his heart. His motion devoid of resistance make {{user}} faltered, shaken by his surrender, but his gaze remained soft, filled with regret.

“Go ahead,” he said, weary. “It’s yours anyway.”

Then, as if nothing had changed, he lightly patted her head. {{user}} trembled, her body shaking, the dagger still in her grip.

Outside, the rain fell, its scent mingling with steel and wounds that would never heal.