Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

"...Too bad you're a nobody."

Cyrus continued:

"Though your talent's lacking, you've got brains, hidden skill~... and a little luck. Most don't even have that."

Malik tried to force out a retort, but before he could open his mouth, Cyrus flicked his hand.

That simple action released a trickle of pressure, and suddenly it was like a mountain dropped onto his chest.

"Ugh—!"

His body immediately broke down, and he could do nothing but lay there, watch, and listen. 

"Though that isn't what makes you interesting. You, my friend~... happen to be full of Aether. Stuffed. That's the only reason I'm even speaking to you. Maybe you'll figure out why if you surviveeeeee."

Cyrus turned to leave, handling Huda like a sack of potatoes. 

"Right now, you're a waste of oxygen. But if you want to ascend..."

He glanced at Rafiq's body.

"Well, that's on you. Figure it out. Maybe you'll survive."

His words weren't just dismissive—they were cutting, dripping with condescension, like Malik wasn't even worth the dirt on his boots.

And yet, as those words sank in, something deep inside the boy stirred.

No. Not stirred. It roared.

He felt it in his chest, his gut, every fiber of his being—a primal rage that burned hotter than the Shams way above them.

But, even then, he didn't say a word.

He had to keep it in.

"...Tshh—"

Malik bit down so hard on his lip it nearly bled.

His fists clenched at his sides, tight enough to make the wounds under his broken fingertips reopen, blood seeping out and dripping onto the ground.

The pain wasn't even registering. All he could feel was that fire.

He was NOT going to give Cyrus the satisfaction of seeing him lose it.

"...Noooooo~?"

Cyrus paused mid-step, glancing back with the faintest glimmer of curiosity in his eyes.

He'd expected an outburst. A scream. A plea. Something.

But instead, all he got was silence.

"You know..."

Tilting his head slightly, his voice became smooth and poisonous as a snake's hiss.

"I wonder... why did you sacrifice so much for them? I mean, seven days? That's all it took? Really?"

He gestured lazily toward Sinbad's body, still lifeless, still cold.

"You've got no blood bond to them. No obligation. So why? What makes them worth it?"

Malik's jaw tightened, his teeth grinding together.

He had a thousand answers to that question. A thousand reasons why.

"..."

But none of them left his lips.

Instead, he remained on the ground, silent, his rage a volcano ready to blow.

Cyrus raised an eyebrow, clearly impressed by the lack of response, and then smirked like he'd just thought of something especially cruel.

"Nothing to say?"

He turned fully and looked down at him, mimicking the start of their first scene together.

"Do you think she would do the same?"

...That was it.

The breaking point.

Malik's head snapped up, his eyes blazing, every ounce of pain and fury he'd bottled up spilling over in that one moment.

"Of course, of course she would!" 

He punched the wall, his battered body be damned.

"I don't doubt it. Not for a SECOND!"

The cave fell silent.

For a moment, even Cyrus looked taken aback—not by the words themselves, but by the unfiltered emotion behind them.

Malik wasn't speaking from logic.

He wasn't even speaking from hope.

He was speaking from a place so deep, so absolute, that not even the devil himself could've shaken his belief.

But Cyrus?

He just smiled. A small, knowing, almost pitying smile.

"Interesting."

He said softly, almost to himself, before turning away again, his footsteps fading.

***

{Outside The Projection} 

"Of course? … What 'of course'?"

Safira's voice was sharp as she turned to Huda.

Her eyes narrowed, burning with contempt.

"Not just not saving him—no. You killed him. The man who sacrificed so much for you, and you just—"

She didn't finish the sentence, but she didn't need to.

Everyone knew what she was going to say.

"...You have no right to stand in this hall."

Layla crossed her arms, her expression just as cold.

"Even called him her brother."

The hall buzzed as they heard those two admonish Al-Sayf's Lady. 

"I used to believe it... But I can't anymore. Not after seeing this."

"They had no blood ties, but they acted more like family than most real families do."

"Their love... it transcended all that. There's no way he'd—"

Another cut in:

"—Yeah, no way." 

"He sacrificed so much for her, for Sinbad. Even after all that happened to him. I can't see him betraying her."

"It has to be some sort of misunderstanding."

Most of them landed on that conclusion.

Right, not all, but 'most,' as people like the "hero" remained, numbering in the hundreds. 

They were disconnected entirely from those around them, not joining both the murmurs of outrage and the frantic attempts to defend Huda's honor.

Zafar was the worst of them.

He stayed quiet, his face calm, but his eyes burned with something far darker.

Hatred.

Deep, festering hatred.

It didn't matter to him what anyone else thought.

He wasn't interested in the back-and-forth or the what-ifs.

He didn't care about their defenses or their shock.

He knew the truth—or at least, he was convinced he did.

Malik was no closer to a hero than a monster was to the divine.

He was a liar, a schemer, a traitor, a Villain—and every betrayal he'd dealt Huda had been for his own gain.

And when the projection finally showed it all—the heavy knife he'd repeatedly driven into her back—her guilt wouldn't just fade; it'd burn to ash.

Her pain, her self-loathing, their shared history—every fragile thread would snap under the truth.

Whatever bond she thought they had, whatever trust or understanding she'd built with him, tried to hold onto, would shatter into pieces too sharp to touch.

And maybe, just maybe, if Zafar was lucky, the wreckage of her emotions wouldn't be wasted.

Maybe they'd twist into something darker.

Something cruel.

Something that, in the end, might serve his purpose.

'Patience.'

A cold smirk tugged at his lips.

Zafar could wait.

'Betrayal always burns the deepest when it comes from the ones you trusted most.'

***

{Inside The Projection} 

Malik stayed where he was, his body shaking like a leaf in a storm.

His fingers dug into the stone floor so hard it felt like they might just crack through it.

His jaw was clenched so tight he thought his teeth would snap, blood dripping from where his lip split open.

He didn't move.

He didn't shout.

Because he couldn't.

Not without signing his own death warrant.

Malik knew how it would end if he had let one word slip.

His head would roll.

This self-inflicted pain was grounding. 

A tether that kept him from losing himself completely to the firestorm boiling inside.

And Cyrus? He knew.

The bastard didn't even bother looking back.

Malik wasn't worth it.

Just a coward.

And that helplessness—that choking, unbearable helplessness—burned worse than anything else.

"I'll kill you. I swear... I'll make you pay for this..."

His whispers were quiet, but to him, they couldn't be any louder.

'If I can't survive this...'

The truth clawed at him like a parasite, digging deep into the cracks of his resolve.

'If I can't Ascend...'

Then his words—his promise—would be meaningless.

He'd die like everyone else.

Forgotten.

Weak.

And Cyrus would keep walking, untouched, untouchable.

Malik didn't know how, or when, or even if he'd get the chance...

But if he did, if he survived, he would make Cyrus regret the day he crossed him.

'I swear it.'