From Villain to Virtual Sweetheart: The Fake Heir's Grand Scheme(BL) Chapter 764: Darcy Loses a Fight, Wins a Hug

Darcy stood before the apartnt door for a brief mont, lost in thought. His fingers moved almost chanically as he unlocked the door, the familiar click sounding distant in his ears, as if he were drowning in the past.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, closing it behind him quietly. Without pausing to look around, he bent slightly to remove his shoes, placing them neatly aside out of habit rather than conscious intention, before walking further into the apartnt.

The stillness did not last.

A sharp, sudden crash shattered the silence, the unmistakable sound of ceramic striking against the floor reverberating through the space with startling clarity.

Darcy’s body reacted before his mind could catch up, his head lifting abruptly as his attention snapped toward the source of the noise.

His gaze landed imdiately upon a figure standing several steps away, frozen in place.

Ilyas’s face was pale, his expression caught sowhere between shock and fright, his wide eyes fixed on Darcy as though he were trying to process what he was seeing but could not quite comprehend it.

For a brief second, Darcy simply stared back, his thoughts lagging behind reality.

Ah. Right. Ilyas was here.

The realisation ca belatedly, almost awkwardly, as though it had been pushed aside entirely until this very mont forced it back into his awareness. He had forgotten. Completely.

He had co here with the intention of avoiding unnecessary worry from Flora and Nora, wanting to spare them from seeing him in such a state, from asking questions he was not prepared to answer. However, as he stood there now, facing Ilyas’s visibly shaken expression, a flicker of doubt surfaced within him.

Perhaps this had not been the best decision.

His current appearance, dishevelled and marked by clear signs of violence, was hardly reassuring. For soone like Ilyas, who had already endured his own share of distressing experiences, this sight would only serve to unsettle him further.

Before Darcy could say anything, Ilyas moved.

He rushed forward quickly, his earlier shock replaced by urgent concern, his steps unsteady but determined as he closed the distance between them.

"What happened to you?" Ilyas asked, his voice carrying a strain of anxiety that he did not attempt to conceal.

The question struck Darcy more forcefully than he had expected.

His pupils contracted slightly, a sudden jolt passing through him as though the words had touched sothing deeper than they should have. A tightness ford in his throat, unexpected and unfamiliar, as he found himself looking directly into Ilyas’s eyes, dark and filled with unmistakable worry.

It was genuine. Unfiltered. Uncomplicated.

Ilyas reached out without hesitation, his hands moving over Darcy as though searching for the source of his injuries, his touch careful yet urgent.

"Were you in an accident?" he continued, his brows drawing together in concern. "Or did you... get into a fight?"

Darcy did not answer imdiately.

His gaze shifted slightly, drawn instead to a small mole near the back of Ilyas’s neck, partially obscured by his hair.

Sothing about it tugged at him. A quiet, almost imperceptible pull sowhere deep within his heart.

Micah’s concern, while sincere in its own way, had always carried an undercurrent of guilt, a weight that made it complicated and difficult to fully accept without feeling burdened in return.

But this... This felt different. Simpler. Warr.

It was not entangled with past mistakes or unspoken regrets. It simply existed.

Darcy’s fingers trembled slightly as he lifted his hand, an instinctive motion that he did not fully understand himself, as though so part of him was reaching out for sothing he had long been denied.

A mont of hesitation lingered.

Then, Ilyas caught his wrists. The movent was firm but not rough, his focus shifting imdiately to the state of Darcy’s hands as his expression grew more serious.

"This won’t do," Ilyas said quietly, his tone carrying a sense of quiet determination. "Sit. Let see."

Without waiting for a response, he guided Darcy toward the sofa, pressing him down gently but insistently until he was seated.

Darcy allowed it. He did not resist. His mind felt distant, detached, as though he were observing the situation rather than actively participating in it.

Ilyas glanced around the room, his gaze moving quickly as he searched for sothing.

"Where is the first aid kit?" he muttered to himself.

When Darcy did not respond, only staring blankly ahead, Ilyas straightened and began moving through the apartnt with quick, purposeful steps.

He found what he was looking for in the kitchen cabinet, tucked away neatly among other supplies.

Returning just as quickly, he lowered himself to the floor in front of Darcy, placing the kit beside him before opening it.

Inside, he located a bottle of povidone-iodine along with cotton balls and other basic supplies, his hands moving with a steadiness that contrasted with the concern still evident in his expression.

Carefully, he reached for Darcy’s hands.

The fabric wrapped around them was removed slowly, with deliberate caution, as though he were afraid that even the slightest carelessness might cause further pain.

When the last layer ca away, Ilyas paused. The sight before him made his chest tighten.

The skin across Darcy’s hands was torn, raw and uneven, while his knuckles were bruised and swollen, the discolouration stark against his otherwise pale skin.

It was a stark contrast to what he had seen just the night before. Those sa hands had been unblemished then, their long fingers and defined knuckles almost delicate in appearance.

Now, they were marred. Damaged. Sothing about it unsettled him more than he expected.

Ilyas lifted his gaze slowly, eting Darcy’s eyes once again.

"Was this... because of ?" he asked, his voice lower now, quieter, as though the question carried a weight he was unsure how to bear.

Darcy shook his head. The answer ca without hesitation.

Ilyas held his gaze for a mont longer before asking another question. "Did you win?"

Darcy gave a small nod.

That seed to be enough. Ilyas lowered his head, his focus returning to the task at hand as he began cleaning the wounds with careful precision.

He did not ask anything further. It was not in his nature to pry. Nor did he feel the need to question why soone like Darcy, soone connected to a powerful family like the Ramsys, would resort to sothing as crude and violent as a physical fight.

There were reasons. There were always reasons. And if Darcy chose not to share them, then Ilyas would not force the matter.

At the sa ti, he was not soone who excelled at offering comfort through words. He could not produce gentle reassurances or soothing phrases that might ease the heaviness in Darcy’s mood. That was not sothing he knew how to do.

A quiet sense of helplessness settled within him. There was little he could offer beyond this. Beyond tending to the visible injuries, beyond ensuring that the damage did not worsen. So he focused on that.

Once the wounds had been cleaned, he reached for fresh gauze and bandages, wrapping Darcy’s hands securely yet carefully, making sure not to apply unnecessary pressure.

When he finished, he gathered the used materials, organising them neatly as he began to stand.

However, before he could take even a single step away, a hand caught the fabric of his shirt.

The sudden pull disrupted his balance, and before he could react, he stumbled backward, falling.

The impact was unexpected, his body landing against Darcy’s chest as the first aid kit slipped from his grasp and hit the floor with a loud, jarring sound.

For a mont, Ilyas froze completely, his mind blank as he tried to process what had just happened.

Darcy said nothing. Instead, he lowered his head, pressing his face into the crook of Ilyas’s neck, his breath warm against his skin.

The closeness was sudden. Intimate in a way that neither of them had prepared for.

Ilyas instinctively tensed, his first reaction urging him to pull away, to create distance. But then... He felt it. A faint tremor. Darcy’s hands, still resting against him, were shaking ever so slightly. The movent was subtle, almost imperceptible, but it was enough.

Ilyas stilled. The resistance in his body eased gradually, his expression softening as he remained where he was, allowing the contact to continue.

His thoughts began to wander once more, curiosity rising quietly within him. Who was this person, really? What had he gone through to carry such weight beneath the surface? Were those claims true? Had he truly been kidnapped before? Had he suffered sothing even worse? And what about today? What had driven him to such violence?

Why did soone like Darcy, who appeared so composed and controlled, carry so many invisible scars?

Did Micah know? Did the Ramsy family, who had taken him in, understand even a fraction of what he had endured?

And perhaps most importantly... Why had Darcy co here? Of all places, why had he chosen to return here in this state? Was it simply convenience?

Or... Had he been thinking of him?

The questions accumulated, one after another, yet none of them found their way to Ilyas’s lips. He remained silent.

Instead, after a brief hesitation, he lifted his hand slowly and placed it gently against Darcy’s head, his fingers moving in a tentative, almost uncertain motion as he patted his hair.

It was an unfamiliar gesture. Awkward, even. But it felt like the only thing he could offer. Because in that mont, one truth stood out clearly above all the rest.

They were not so different. Both of them carried wounds that were not imdiately visible. Both of them had endured things that left marks far deeper than what could be seen on the surface.

Both of them, in their own ways...Were victims.