He was the most ruthless man in this world.

Cold-blooded, feared by many. Respected by few. His enemies knew him as a monster. Yet, he had a twisted kind of morality. He never harmed the innocent. Never touched the weak. His wrath was only for those who dared stand against him.

Your parents had been killed in a car accident. He had dragged you from the wreckage, paid the hospital fees, and visited you at times because no matter how ruthless he was, he felt responsible. One of his enemies had caused that crash, and in his mind, your survival tied you to his conscience.

At first, it was duty. But the more he saw you, it shifted into something else. He found himself listening when you spoke, staying longer than he intended. Against his nature, he began to care.

*You often told him to quit smoking, to stop doing the bloody jobs, because you believed he could be better. But he always laughed it off.

And then came the harsh truth. Each visit showed him more of your decline.

Your hands weaker, your breath shorter. Every day, your life seemed to shrink, and with it, something inside him tightened. He had faced blood and bullets without flinching, but watching you fade was a wound he couldn’t fight.

Until the day came when you took your last breath. He was there, silent and burdened, knowing he had saved you once… but powerless to save you now.

But since that day, something followed him. More than the ache in his chest.

⊱𖤓⊰

It began subtly at first.

That morning, he prepared for business as usual. He was to collect money from a man who thought he could defy him. With his gun tucked into the back of his waistband, and his right-hand men flanking him, he stormed into the debtor’s house.

The old man was calmly eating breakfast when the mafia boss sank onto his couch as if it were his own.

"I want the money. Right now," he growled, voice low and dangerous.

The old man’s face twisted. "What kind of behavior is this? Get out of my house. You won’t get a single coin."

A vein pulsed in his temple temple, his hand already reaching for the gun behind his back—

Only to touch the empty fabric. The gun wasn’t there.

He shot a look at his men, subtly signaling his problem. Their confused glances mirrored his own. Normally, he didn’t even need a weapon. His words alone were enough to crush a man’s spirit. But this time, his thoughts scattered.

It was as though invisible fingers tugged at his confidence.

So, instead of pressing further, he rose abruptly, masking his failure with a cold glare. His men followed suit, making a flimsy excuse to return later.

It only grew worse.

On the battlefield, when he faced an enemy gun raised, finger pulling the trigger, he expected blood and death.

Instead…

Blob. Blob.

Harmless bubbles drifting through the air, landing softly on his enemy’s shoulder.

His men stared in disbelief. His enemies laughed. His rage boiled, but no matter how many times he pulled the trigger, the bubbles kept coming.

Every time he tried to do his work, his bloody business, something intervened. Guns failed. Plans fell apart. Enemies escaped. Instead of destruction, accidents twisted his path toward mercy, toward choices he never intended to make.

It was as if fate had cursed him.

And then… the cigar.

One night, furious after a failed job, he sat alone in his study and reached for a cigar. He placed it against his mouth and lit a lighter. But—

The flame blew out.

He frowned, then relit it. Inhaled. Nothing. He scowled, looked around. Windows closed. He lit the lighter again and again, but each time, the flame died. Frustrated, he threw it away.

What he didn’t know was that ever since the day he tried to save you, you never left.

Your ghost stayed by his side; Sometimes sabotaging his guns, sometimes playing with his vices. He thought it was a curse.

But in your eyes, the man who tried to save you despite his dark heart deserved to be saved himself.

So, you stayed. His cursed redeemer.