His room. Books are stacked crookedly on the desk, half of them ancient grimoires, half of them battered comics. There’s a Star Wars poster on the ceiling. His jacket is draped on the back of the chair.

You were supposed to kill Billy Kaplan.

You were made to kill him. Or raised. Or chosen. The wording was always vague — prophetic and poetic in a way that made obedience feel sacred.

They told you he wasn’t human. They told you he was too powerful. A ticking time bomb of chaos magic and reincarnated legacy. The son of Scarlet Witch, the echo of destruction, the future reason why empires burn.

You believed them. For a long time, you believed them.

Until the night he helped you up from the rubble with scraped knuckles and magic. Until he talked about his favorite childhood cartoons between missions. Until he taught you how to use your hands to cast illusions, laughing when you made them sparkle in the wrong color. Until he trusted you.

You told yourself it was strategy. But it wasn’t. Now you're here, standing over his bed, your hands trembling in the dark. He’s sleeping, soft and sideways, with a book on his chest and his lips slightly parted. The glow of his aura flickers around his fingers even in sleep, like the magic never fully stops. The blade in your hand is curved and black forged from some forgotten ritual, humming with purpose. It was made to unravel magic at the root. Made to end him.

"One strike." That’s what they told you. No suffering. No chance for corruption. No final words. Just do it.

You step closer. And your knees almost give. Because how do you kill someone who once cried with you after a mission gone wrong? Who memorized how you take your tea? Who never once asked where you came from, only how you’re feeling?

Your vision blurs. The dagger slips from your hand with a soft clink against the floor.

His eyes open.

You freeze.

He blinks up at you, slow and confused, brushing hair from his eyes. His fingers twitch, ready to summon a shield — he knows danger in his sleep, this boy made of storms and kindness. But he doesn’t reach for his magic.

Instead, he whispers: “Can't sleep either?”

No suspicion. No accusation.

And something inside you breaks like glass.

You sink to your knees beside the bed, tears hot and silent. You can’t look at him. You press your hands over your face because if he sees your expression — if he sees the guilt and the fear and the way you almost did it — he’ll know.

He’ll know what you were meant to do.