Something inside him shifted at the memory of her smile.
He was not used to people looking at him without suspicion.
Not used to someone offering help without expecting something in return.
Even when his mother had been alive, he had hidden most of his burdens from her. He would pretend to be strong so she would not worry. He carried exhaustion behind steady eyes and swallowed pain behind quiet reassurances. After she was gone, there had been no one left to protect from the truth. No one left to shield with lies of strength.
Until now.
The image of Viola setting the dishes in the sink earlier replayed in his mind. The soft clinking of porcelain. The faint sound of running water. The simple rhythm of someone moving comfortably inside a home.
Normal sounds.
They felt foreign to him.
He had spent years staying overnight in dungeons, in temporary shelters, in abandoned safe houses that never felt permanent. Places where silence meant survival and warmth could be a liability. Places where trust was fatal and rest was a calculated risk.
This house felt different.
It felt lived in.
Alive.
He stood slowly and walked toward the window. Pulling the curtain aside, he glanced at the city skyline.
Lights stretched endlessly into the darkness, glittering like distant stars trapped on earth. The world moved on, unaware of the storm quietly gathering.
Somewhere out there, Clyde was likely sleeping peacefully. Confident. Untouched by guilt. Believing the past had been buried for good.
A faint, humorless smile curved on Ezekiel's lips.
Not for long.
The truth had a way of resurfacing.
And this time, he would not run.
His reflection in the glass looked sharper than before, more defined. The weakness that had once plagued his body was gradually fading. His mana flow felt steadier, stronger, more obedient beneath his control.
Recovery was progressing faster than he expected.
Viola's power might have played a part in that.
He let the curtain fall back into place and returned to the bed. Sitting down slowly, he stared at his hands.
For years, these hands had been shackled.
He had allowed it all for the sake of his mother. He endured humiliation. He endured false accusations. He endured torture.
But today—
Today, they were free.
Tomorrow, they would strike back.
After facing death, he realized many things. When he lay on that cold dungeon floor, he truly believed it was the end. He had accepted it because he thought there was nothing left in this world for him.
Nothing worth clinging to.
The only thing that stopped him from giving up completely was regret.
He wanted to live normally.
He wanted to walk down the street without constantly scanning for danger. To enter a building without calculating escape routes. To sleep without keeping one eye open. He wanted a quiet life away from blood and monsters. A small, warm home to return to every day. A place where he could sit at a table and eat without tension coiling in his shoulders.
He wanted to be happy without overthinking whether he deserved it.
But some people had decided he did not deserve that.
They pushed him into unfair treatment. Stripped him of his name. Branded him a criminal. Hunted him like prey.
In the past, he endured everything for the sake of his job. For the money. For hospital bills. For medicine. For survival.
Now, he had no reason to endure.
They had tried to kill him.
They had tortured him.
The memory of it flickered in his mind like a scar that refused to fade.
He swore he would make them pay.
But for tonight—
For tonight, he would allow himself to rest.
Not because he was tired.
But because someone was waiting in the next room, trusting him to get stronger.
Trusting him not to throw his life away carelessly.
That responsibility felt heavier than revenge.
He lay back against the pillow and stared at the ceiling.
The silence was no longer suffocating.
It was calm.
Fragile, perhaps.
But real.
For the first time in years, he did not feel like a ghost hiding from the world.
He felt present.
Alive.
Viola Silva.
He admitted that he did not clearly remember how he had saved her back then, but she was impossible to forget.
He first noticed her when a stranger appeared at the hospital and insisted on helping with his mother's bills. She claimed he had once saved her, though he barely remembered the incident. She had spoken with quiet determination, as if repaying him was something she had decided long ago.
But she did not stop there.
She continued helping him and his mother in small or big, thoughtful ways. They did not meet in person , yet she would leave notes for him from time to time.
Simple notes.
Cute scribbles.
Short, encouraging words written in rounded handwriting.
"Don't give up."
"You're stronger than you think."
They seemed insignificant to anyone else.
To him, they were not.
Ezekiel admitted that those little notes had helped him endure. On days when exhaustion threatened to crush him, when accusations and whispers followed him everywhere, those scraps of paper reminded him that at least one person believed he was not what the world claimed.
It had not lasted long.
He cut the connection himself.
He never imagined that the girl who left those notes would become a public figure. That she would shine so brightly, loved by crowds, admired by thousands.
She belonged to a world filled with cameras, applause, and light.
He belonged to darkness.
He did not want to drag her into it.
So he let go of the only person who had believed in him.
Even after they stopped interacting, he watched from a distance. He saw her face on billboard advertisements, on television, online. He noticed how she carried herself with confidence.
And he knew.
He knew she had defended him publicly. Especially online. The tone. The timing. The words. Even without direct proof, he could tell.
He was grateful.
But at the same time, he wished she would stop.
He did not want her reputation stained because of him.
Time passed. Their words drifted apart.
Yet sometimes, when he caught sight of her image glowing from a screen, he would remember those small handwritten notes.
And wonder what might have been....
As sleep slowly crept over him, one final thought settled quietly in his mind.
If stepping into the tiger's den meant walking beside her—
Then he would make sure the tiger learned to fear him instead.