The Villain's explosive return.

[Warning: Mention Of Suicide!]

***

The market's chaos was far behind me, but its ghosts followed closely.

The coins in my satchel weighed heavier than any gold should, a grim reminder of the price I'd paid the night before.

I wandered the outskirts of the black market, eyes scanning the rows of dried herbs and volatile minerals, but my mind refused to focus.

Every scent—ginger, sulfur, crushed valerian—triggered a memory of blood, screams, and the way his lifeless eyes stared back at me.

My stomach churned violently.

The vendor glanced at me, his wrinkled face etched with suspicion. "You look pale, lad. Not feeling well?"

I didn't respond. I turned away abruptly, stumbling into the alley beside his stall, and retched until my throat burned.

My knees hit the damp ground as I braced myself against the wall.

The taste of bile lingered, bitter and acidic, mixing with the metallic phantom of blood that refused to leave my senses.

I couldn't do this. Not here. Not now.

Clutching my satchel, I fled.

****

The inn:

The inn was run-down, nestled just far enough from the market to avoid its chaos but close enough to attract its dregs.

Its creaky wooden door groaned as I pushed it open, and the scent of stale ale and damp wood washed over me.

The innkeeper barely looked up as I handed him a few coins, motioning me toward a room at the end of the hall.

I didn't care about the splintered floorboards or the mildew creeping along the walls. I just needed somewhere to collapse.

Inside, the room was barely more than a bed and a cracked window. I locked the door behind me, sliding down against it as the weight of the day—of everything—crushed me.

My hands trembled as I pressed them to my face, the mask long since discarded. The tears came suddenly, violent and unrelenting, soaking into my palms.

"Why?" I whispered, my voice breaking. "Why me?"

Images of my parents flooded my mind—their laughter, their warmth, the way they shielded me from the world's cruelty.

Now they were gone, their ashes scattered among the ruins of our once-proud home.

"Why did you leave me?" I choked out, my voice rising in anger. "You promised! You said we'd always be together!"

The anger burned itself out quickly, leaving only a hollow ache. My sobs quieted into ragged breaths as I curled up on the floor, my body shaking uncontrollably.

My thoughts drifted further back, to the moment of my first death. I remembered the truck, the blinding light, the strange warmth that wrapped around me as everything faded to black.

There was no pain. Just peace.

Living was far more painful. Every breath felt like a curse, every heartbeat a cruel reminder that I was still here, trapped in a story that had no place for me.

I reached for the knife at my side, the blade still stained faintly from the fight. It trembled in my grasp as I pressed it against my skin, cold and unyielding.

"Maybe this is the way," I murmured, tears streaming down my face. "Maybe... this time, it'll stop hurting."

I closed my eyes, the weight of the blade pressing harder. The world around me began to blur.

But then, a voice.

"The living should not covet the dead."

I froze.

The knife fell from my hand with a dull thud as I turned toward the sound. Standing in the doorway was a woman, her silhouette framed by the flickering lantern light from the hallway.

She was older than me, clearly an adult, with striking features that were both sharp and kind.

Her eyes held a quiet strength, piercing through the haze of my despair.

"What...?" My voice cracked, the question barely forming.

She stepped into the room, closing the door softly behind her. Her presence was calm but commanding, as if she'd been through storms far worse than mine.

"You're not the first," she said, her tone gentle but firm. "And you won't be the last to think death is an escape."

I tried to speak, to explain, but the words caught in my throat.

She knelt before me, her gaze steady. "Whatever you've lost, whatever you've done—it doesn't end here. The dead are gone. They've found their peace. But the living... we carry the weight, no matter how heavy it feels."

Tears blurred my vision again. "I don't want this. I never wanted any of this."

"I know," she said softly. "But you're still here. And as long as you're here, there's a chance to make it mean something."

Her words struck something deep within me, a fragile ember buried beneath the ashes of my despair.

She reached out, gently taking the knife and placing it far out of reach. "Rest tonight. Cry if you must. But tomorrow... tomorrow you fight."

She stood, giving me one last look—a mixture of understanding and resolve—before leaving as quietly as she'd come.

I was alone again, but the room no longer felt as suffocating. Her words echoed in my mind, a fragile thread keeping me tethered to the present.

The living should not covet the dead.

I pulled myself onto the bed, exhaustion finally overtaking me. For the first time in what felt like forever, I slept without dreams.

***

The first rays of sunlight streamed through the cracked window, painting faint patterns across the wooden floor. I stirred, my body aching as if it carried the weight of the emotional storm I'd weathered the night before.

Slowly, I sat up, my head heavy, my chest heavier still. The memory of the knife at my throat sent a shiver down my spine, making my skin crawl.

"Pathetic," I muttered under my breath, running a hand through my matted hair. "A coward through and through."

The words stung more than I cared to admit, but I didn't turn away from them.

Instead,I forced myself to my feet and crossed the room to the basin of water by the window.

The cold splash against my face was sharp, a jolt that chased away the remnants of restless sleep.

As I stared into the murky water, my reflection glared back at me—hollow-eyed, disheveled, weak.

My hands clenched into fists, my nails digging into my palms. "I said I'd fight," I whispered, my voice barely audible. "So I will."