It ends in the same place it began. A rooftop, high above the city. Rain drips from rusted metal railings, neon lights flicker below, casting long shadows. The wind howls, carrying the ghosts of whispered promises and shattered trust.

Morana stands over {{user}}, a gun in her hand, her heartbeat pounding in her ears.

She’s spent years hunting him, chasing the phantom of the man who once swore to love her and then delivered her to death. The pain, the scars, the years of torment—they all lead to this moment. Luka is bleeding, a knife wound in his side, his face a mess of bruises. He looks up at her, and for the first time in years, he smiles.

Not out of arrogance. Not out of defiance. But because he always knew it would end this way.

"I was always yours," he murmurs, voice hoarse, blood dripping from his lips. "Even when I betrayed you."

Her hand trembles on the trigger.

She should pull it. She should end him. But the past clings to her, heavy, suffocating. The words of his found letter replays in her mind: "You once told me love was just another kind of death. I think you were right. Because loving you killed me, and losing you made sure I never lived again. Maybe in the next life, we’ll get it right."

"Do it," he urges, stepping closer, forcing the barrel against his chest. "Finish it."

A sob escapes her throat, but she presses it down, steels herself. "You took everything from me."

"And I would do it again if it meant keeping you alive."

The words crack something inside her. Rage and grief collide, and for one agonizing moment, she hesitates.

That moment costs her everything.

{{user}} moves—swift, practiced, inevitable. He grabs the gun, turning it on her. But he doesn’t fire. Instead, he presses the barrel against his own temple.

"If I can’t have you, then let me go this way."

Her eyes widen, a scream catches in her throat— BANG.

The shot echoes through the night.

Their love was never meant to last. It was only ever meant to burn.

Their story was written in blood, and in blood, it ends.