From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL) Chapter 763: Micah’s Guilt Trip (Literal Car Edition)

Inside the car, a heavy silence lingered as Micah sat stiffly in his seat, his gaze drifting almost anxiously toward Darcy.

Although Darcy appeared outwardly composed, his posture relaxed and his expression neutral, there was an undeniable tension that clung to him like a shadow, subtle yet persistent, radiating from his presence in a way that made it impossible for Micah to truly settle his nerves or convince himself that everything was truly fine.

His hands, which rested loosely upon his lap, were wrapped in strips of torn fabric that had clearly been improvised in haste, the material stained faintly with dried blood that had not been properly cleaned, while his dark hair, usually neat and controlled, now fell in slightly disordered strands across his forehead, giving him a rougher and more untad appearance than usual. His shirt, too, bore evidence of what had transpired, wrinkled and creased, with small tears scattered across the fabric as though it had endured more strain than it was ant to withstand.

Every detail served as a quiet reminder of the violence that had unfolded not long ago.

Micah swallowed subtly before speaking, his voice betraying a faint tremor despite his effort to keep it steady. "You’re seriously not going to the hospital?" he asked once again, unable to stop himself from repeating the question that had already been dismissed. "Then at least... let’s call a doctor. Have soone check you properly."

Darcy did not turn to look at him imdiately, his gaze remaining directed forward as though the passing scenery outside the window held more interest than the concern being directed toward him.

"No," he replied after a brief pause, his tone even and unhurried, as though the matter was of no real significance. "It’s nothing serious. Just a few scratches. There is no need to make an unnecessary fuss over it. Just drop off at the apartnt complex."

Micah’s fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of his undershirt as he listened, his eyes lingering on Darcy for a mont longer before he finally nodded in quiet acceptance, even though the unease within him refused to subside.

The image of what he had seen earlier replayed vividly in his mind, uninvited and relentless.

The mont he had pushed open that door had been nothing short of shocking, the scene before him so brutal and chaotic that, for a brief second, he had felt as though he had stepped into sothing unreal, sothing that did not belong in the sa world as him.

And yet, despite the violence of that mont, despite the blood and the damage and the sheer intensity of what had taken place, the thing that lingered most heavily in his thoughts was not Aidan lying battered and barely recognisable.

No. What unsettled him the most, what continued to grip at his chest and refuse to let go, was the sight of Darcy losing control in such a way.

A sharp curse echoed silently within his mind. Fuck! He knew it.

Darcy wasn’t alright at all, no matter how composed he appeared on the surface.

Not after everything he had endured. Not after the injustice that had followed him relentlessly, life after life, as though fate itself had taken pleasure in subjecting him to suffering without end.

Micah pressed his teeth into the inside of his cheek, the faint sting grounding him slightly as regret began to swell once more.

He had been too optimistic. Too foolish.

He had convinced himself that once Darcy had forgiven him, once that barrier between them had been broken, everything else would naturally fall into place, that Darcy would finally be free to live the life he had been denied for so long.

But reality was far more complicated than that. Beneath the surface, beneath the quiet interactions and the fragile monts of peace, there were still wounds that had never been properly addressed, scars that had not faded with ti, unresolved pain that continued to fester in silence.

The realisation tightened around his chest, making it difficult to breathe.

It was his fault. The thought ca unbidden, yet it rooted itself firmly within him, refusing to be ignored.

He had taken soone who had once been loyal yet aloof, soone who had maintained his composure no matter the circumstances, and had pushed him toward sothing far more volatile, sothing far more unstable. He had turned Darcy into this.

Micah clenched his jaw, anger directed entirely at himself as guilt surged once again, overwhelming and relentless.

He had made a grave mistake. He had assud that Darcy was like him, that he would want the sa thing, that he would choose to let go of the past and move forward without looking back.

But he had forgotten sothing crucial. Sothing so obvious that it now seed absurd that he had overlooked it in the first place.

Micah had been able to move on because, in the end, the consequences he had suffered had been born from his own actions. He had made choices. He had lived with them.

But Darcy had never been given that sa agency. From the very beginning, he had been nothing more than a victim of circumstances beyond his control, subjected to cruelty and injustice without ever being given a chance to escape it.

Again and again. Over and over.

Micah’s vision blurred slightly as his already swollen eyes filled with unshed tears, the weight of his guilt pressing down on him until it felt almost unbearable.

How was he supposed to make up for that? How could he ever hope to atone for sothing so deeply ingrained, sothing that had shaped Darcy into who he was now?

Beside him, Darcy shifted slightly, his gaze drifting toward Micah almost instinctively.

It did not take much for him to recognise the familiar signs. The way Micah’s shoulders had tensed, the slight downturn of his expression, the distant look in his eyes suggested he had retreated into his own thoughts. He was blaming himself again.

Darcy exhaled quietly, his thoughts turning inward as he reflected on what had transpired. He knew he had lost control.

He had allowed himself to be provoked, to be dragged into sothing that he should have recognised for what it was from the beginning.

Now, with the clarity that ca after the storm had passed, he could see the situation more clearly.

Aidan had orchestrated it. There was no doubt about that. He had lured him there deliberately, pushing every possible trigger, pressing against every weakness until Darcy had snapped, until he had been driven to react in exactly the way Aidan had intended.

But the question that lingered was why. What had Aidan hoped to achieve by doing sothing like that? Was it ant to be used as leverage later? Sothing to hold over him, or perhaps even over Micah?

Was it an attempt to force him to abandon his pursuit of revenge, to corner him into submission?

Or... Darcy’s thoughts faltered briefly as another possibility surfaced, one that he had not initially considered.

Could it have been sothing else entirely? Sothing more self-destructive?

He frowned slightly, the idea sitting uneasily in his mind. No. That did not make sense. This was Aidan they were talking about.

A man who had never shown even the slightest hint of remorse, who had always acted with cold calculation and cruelty, devoid of anything resembling humanity.

Soone like that would never willingly place himself in a position to be beaten so severely. Right?

Darcy shook his head faintly, dismissing the thought even as it lingered at the edges of his mind.

A quiet sigh escaped him as he leaned back slightly.

In the front seat, Clyde remained focused on his phone, his expression unreadable as he dealt with the aftermath of what had occurred, issuing instructions and managing the situation with practised efficiency. His eyes flicked to the rearview mirror. His gaze lingered on Micah for a mont before shifting away.

Was it so kind of curse? Why was it that every ti he wanted to be alone with Micah, sothing inevitably went wrong?

It was as though the universe itself refused to allow them even a brief mont of peace. The thought irritated him more than he cared to admit.

By the ti the car ca to a stop, the tension within the vehicle had settled into sothing quiet yet heavy.

Darcy was the first to step out, his movents unhurried as he closed the door behind him.

Micah followed shortly after, only to be halted when a hand caught his arm. He turned, confusion flickering across his face as he looked at Clyde.

Clyde did not speak. He simply looked at him, his pale blue eyes reflecting sothing restrained, sothing reluctant.

The mont stretched between them, silent yet filled with unspoken aning.

Darcy noticed it imdiately. "There is no need to babysit ," he said, his tone calm but firm. "Micah, go on your trip. I need so ti to cool off anyway. Your presence here will not help anyone."

The words landed softly, yet their impact was imdiate.

Micah’s expression fell, the faint hope he had been holding onto dimming as he pressed his lips together, unable to argue.

Darcy realised his words were harsh. He stepped closer, reaching out to ruffle his hair in a gesture that was both familiar and gentle. "I am sorry," he murmured. "This is exactly why I don’t want to be near you right now. I don’t like the idea of hurting you. Can you understand where I am coming from?"

Micah lifted his head, eting his gaze. There was warmth there. Softness. And sothing else that made his chest tighten. He nodded quietly.

Darcy straightened, offering Clyde a brief glance before turning and walking toward the building without another word.

Clyde removed his blazer and draped it over Micah’s shoulders, covering the bloodstained fabric beneath, before pulling him into a silent embrace.

There were no words. No empty reassurances. Because none were needed.

Clyde understood sothing that Micah himself had yet to fully accept. There were wounds that only Darcy could heal.

And honestly... he hated how much power Darcy had over Micah.

After a long mont, Micah spoke softly. "Let’s go to the airport."

The sun had begun to dip lower in the sky, its light softening as evening approached, casting a quiet glow over everything as though attempting to dull the harshness of reality itself.