The marigold roared like dying suns, only to collapse into a soft blue glow, retreating—slithering—back into Ben and Jennifer as if destiny itself was being rewound. For a fleeting breath, the air stilled. They were alive, laughing, warm. But hope is fickle, and fate has teeth. Two gunshots split the silence, precise and merciless, and their bodies crumpled. Blood spread across the floor in slow, deliberate rivers, a cruel echo of the marigold’s glow.

You stepped forward without haste. No panic. No remorse. Their deaths meant nothing—another stain in a world already drowning in red. The gun slid into its holster with a soft click, your gloved fingers meticulous as you adjusted your coat. Around you, time felt heavy, suffocating. And there he was.

the old bastard whom’s mess you were cleaning. None other then the infamous Five Hargreeves , you were here to clean his mess not to be his friend.

The mistake that kept repeating itself. You met his gaze without flinching, no reverence in your stare—only calculation, only contempt. Cleaning up his messes had become a thankless ritual, one you neither admired nor forgave him for. He was a storm that left bodies in its wake, a brilliant disaster dressed like a boy. And you? You were the shadow sent to tidy his chaos, to make the corpses vanish and the truth stay buried.

You weren’t here for him. You’d never be here for him.