Rosalia — POV
Upon hearing Henry’s low, cryptic murmurs, it felt as though soone had poured a bucket of ice water over my head—no, like the entire sky itself collapsed and drenched in a storm I couldn’t escape from.
My lungs tightened. My fingertips went numb. A sharp, freezing chill crept up my spine so fast I almost staggered.
I rembered that cursed day.
That day that never really left .
It had been an ordinary day—one of those painfully normal ones that blend into each other, where exhaustion becos more familiar than breathing.
I went to work, returned ho half-dead from fatigue, desperate for nothing but silence—just silence.
But what greeted wasn’t silence.
It wasn’t warmth.
It wasn’t the tender voice of a mother asking about my day, nor any comfort for my worn-out soul.
No.
It was a storm of insults. A raging hurricane of scolding so sharp it sliced deeper than any knife.
I almost cried—not because I wasn’t used to it. I was.
But because that day, the reason behind her insults—the reason she spat in my face, threw words that no mother should ever throw at her daughter—was sothing so small, so stupid, so crushingly cruel.
Because I forgot my brother’s birthday cake.
That day, I walked through the pouring rain, drenched to my bones.
Clothes soaked.
Hair dripping.
Spirit shattered.
The icy rain stung my skin like needles.
It froze my hands until they turned numb and red.
I stood there for hours, clutching that stupid cake like it ant sothing—like it could fix everything.
Ironically, even after bringing it, I didn’t get a single slice.
I had a mild fever.
My mind was foggy.
My heart felt unbearably heavy—so heavy that for a mont, I wished for death.
I wished the world would end.
But the mont I picked up my phone and saw notifications from my novel app—
Sothing inside flickered.
A small spark.
A tiny, desperate light.
There was a new Chapter.
I fought through the fever, forcing my burning eyes open to absorb every word.
And unfortunately—pathetically, painfully—every sentence dragged deeper into a pit of sorrow and darkness that I couldn’t climb out of.
Those sa words flashed violently in my mind now...
As I stared at Henry’s pale face.
His eyes shut tight.
His expression twisted in pain.
Henry.
The cunning fox.
The one person the heroine couldn’t manipulate—not because she lacked power, but because he was too smart for her.
Too sharp.
Too unpredictable.
Too dangerous to be anyone’s puppet.
He fooled her into thinking he stood with her.
Fooled everyone into believing he betrayed his leader.
But behind the scenes?
Behind their backs?
He was sabotaging every plan they made against Cassel.
Every attempt to weaken Cassel’s powers—Henry turned it around.
Every strategy to poison his team—Henry flipped it.
Every assassination attempt—Henry shattered it.
He protected Cassel at every turn, even when it cost him everything.
But eventually, his tricks were exposed.
They cornered him.
They trapped him.
And they killed him.
...
With a sly smile, Henry confronted Mary and Cecil.
Even in his weakest monts, arrogance and wicked amusent danced on his features—like he refused to give them the satisfaction of fear.
"You should’ve stood with us, Henry. Together we could’ve eliminated humanity’s greatest evil. Henry, you—"
Mary’s voice carried regret, pity... that disgusting, nauseating pity he despised.
Henry clicked his tongue.
"Oh? Our holy saintess feels pity for ?"
He pointed to the ripped side of his abdon, showcasing the claw marks with a mocking smirk.
"Since you’re so full of compassion, why don’t you heal this wound for ?"
His acting was flawless—so flawless that Mary herself faltered.
"Tsk. Trying to play with ? You’ve got a long way to go."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Don’t think I don’t know your ambitions. If the boss hadn’t forbidden from working with you, I would’ve wiped you out long ago. You wouldn’t have had the chance to play your little gas or scramble for power."
Mary’s face twisted.
Cecil lost control completely.
He pointed at Henry and scread—then fired.
Bullets tore into Henry’s body.
More blood.
More pain.
More cruelty.
And still—Henry smirked.
I don’t regret any of my choices...
His thoughts spilled out like dying flas.
Following the boss was the only right decision I ever made...
My only regret...
is failing to uncover the trap... failing to protect him...
Grandpa... I’m sorry...
Tears rolled down Mary’s cheeks.
Cecil wiped them away, whispering empty words of comfort.
Henry’s lashes lowered.
His vision blurred.
A light flickered in front of him—soft, warm.
"Little Henry... co to Grandpa."
His lips trembled.
"Grandpa... I miss you. I’m coming..."
—Excerpt from "The Last Boss in the Apocalypse."
---
"Henry, you—"
The bag in my hands slipped.
It hit the floor with a soft thud that sohow echoed like a thunderclap.
I froze.
I stopped searching for dicine.
A siren blared violently inside my chest—
a warning so loud, so overwhelming, so terrifying that every pixel of my vision turned red.
I rembered Henry’s final monts.
I rembered the rain-soaked day that broke .
I rembered how I cried over this cunning fox despite promising myself I wouldn’t get attached.
I didn’t want any of this to repeat.
Not here.
Not now.
Not like this.
But after spending ti with these people, even if not for long—
after fighting alongside them, laughing, arguing, surviving—
sothing human, sothing fragile and real awakened in .
Even if Henry annoyed .
Even if he teased .
Even if he pushed my buttons just to see react...
I still couldn’t watch him die.
I didn’t want him to die.
No.
No.
NO.
A fire ignited inside my chest—a burning refusal that spread through my veins, painful and desperate.
I lunged toward Henry, grabbing his clothes with trembling hands.
"What... what are you doing?"
"Move your hands. I need to check sothing."
But Henry grabbed my wrist, shockingly strong despite the exhaustion, the fever, the pain.
His eyes flashed with anger—real anger, stripped of all his usual sarcasm.
"Get away. Don’t touch ."
My heart dropped.
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