CHAPTER 265: CHAPTER 265

Her eyes immediately darkened, the warmth fading from them. "I wanted to ask why," she said slowly, her tone caught somewhere between anger and restraint. "But knowing you? You probably don’t want to tell me."

I poured another glass of the wine, the liquid catching the glow of the chandelier. "I’ll tell you."

Whitney blinked, caught off guard. "R–Really?"

"I’m telling you this because you’re sharp enough to already suspect most of it," I said, meeting her gaze. "But you’ll have to follow my conditions."

Her curiosity flickered, overtaking her hesitation. She leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees. "Spill."

"First," I began, swirling the wine in my glass, "don’t ask how I found out. I can tell you everything else, but not that."

"As long as you tell me everything, I’m fine with that," she said.

Whitney nodded once. "As long as you tell me everything, I’m fine with that."

"Second," I continued, narrowing my eyes at her, "don’t tell anyone. Especially them."

She frowned at that, her tone rising with disbelief. "What? Don’t you think they deserve to know the truth—especially Angela?"

I took a slow sip before answering, my voice steady but low. "Telling the truth won’t change a thing. I still killed him."

The words hung heavy between us. Whitney fell silent, her lips pressing together as she looked away, processing.

"Lastly," I said after a moment, setting the glass down gently, the faint clink echoing between us. "Keep it a secret that I’m still in contact with you... and I hope this will be the last time we’ll meet each other."

Whitney’s eyes widened slightly. She opened her mouth, ready to argue, to protest but then stopped herself. Her expression faltered, and for a brief second, the fire in her gaze dimmed into quiet resignation. She knew me well enough to understand when I’d made up my mind.

Hatred. That was what I wanted. It was easier that way. If they all hated me, then they wouldn’t chase me and just focus on theirselves.

I leaned forward, my tone low and firm. "I won’t say it twice, so listen carefully."

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

Nightjars Hideout

Kairos sat alone in the dimly lit room, the shadows from the flickering lamps stretching across the walls. His fingers drummed lightly on the table as he reread the message on his smartwatch.

"I’ve been discovered."

The words were simple, but their weight pressed down on him like a storm about to break. Without a word, he summoned the members who had been directly involved in Raphael’s murder.

"It must have been Matthew," Thorne said, his voice breaking the silence. He leaned back, a wry smirk on his face. "Looks like he’s improved too."

Kairos remained motionless, his expression unreadable, betraying no hint of emotion.

Magellan adjusted his shades, pushing them up the bridge of his nose as he studied Thorne with a sharp, skeptical glare.

"What?" Thorne asked, still smirking. "Isn’t that the case? Everyone knows that Jozef called Matthew... Oh wait—was it a mistake to leave Matthew alive?"

Kairos said nothing. His silence filled the room like a heavy fog, making the words hang awkwardly in the air.

Thorne shifted uneasily, the edge of concern creeping into his voice. "Boss?"

Seemingly annoyed by his nonstop chatter, Kairos’ eyes narrowed, and he turned a hard glare toward Thorne.

The air in the room shifted instantly.

But Thorne only met the glare with a lazy grin, as if the tension didn’t exist at all. "Boss, now that things have turned out like this, shouldn’t we get revenge? Matthew helped us a lot, sure—but if he’s the one who—"

"Shut it," Kairos’ voice was calm, but the weight behind it was absolute.

Thorne stopped mid-sentence, shrugging with feigned nonchalance. "Well, fine. I think it’s okay for now anyway. Doesn’t look like Jozef got wind of the news yet."

Kairos didn’t respond right away. He rose from his seat with grace, the faint hum of his power thickening the air. "I’ll come to a decision after hearing what Remillia has to say," he said quietly. Then, his tone dropped several degrees colder. "So, Thorne..."

His bloodlust suddenly burst from him like a shockwave.

The atmosphere turned suffocating—an invisible weight pressed down on Thorne as his smirk vanished, his knees buckled slightly under the crushing pressure.

"You’d better stay shut until then."

"Y–Yes, boss," Thorne managed to choke out, his breath ragged as sweat beaded on his forehead.

Kairos gave him one last look—cold, sharp, and final—before turning away. His bloodlust faded gradually with each step he took toward the exit, the silence left in his wake almost deafening.

Magellan exhaled softly once Kairos was gone and removed his shades, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Why did you have to do that?" he asked, tone weary.

Thorne coughed and tried to straighten up, forcing a crooked smile. "Do what?" He laughed weakly, only to choke again.

Magellan’s frown deepened. "A clue, Thorne. Why did you show them a piece of evidence behind?"

Thorne’s grin returned, faint but unmistakably sly. "Just because..." he muttered, brushing the sweat from his brow.

He had left behind evidence—deliberately. Nothing too obvious, nothing that would expose Remillia outright. Revealing her identity would destroy the fragile thread of trust that lingered between her and this organization, and he wasn’t ready to cut that thread yet. Instead, he’d left something small. Insignificant enough to be overlooked by most, but undeniable once noticed—something that would inevitably lead suspicion toward her.

A trail, faint but dangerous.

He paused by the doorway, his reflection glinting faintly off the metal handle. A dark smile tugged at his lips as he murmured under his breath, his tone low and venomous.

"You can only perfectly possess a person when she has nowhere left to return to. That way..." His eyes gleamed with a strange, twisted fondness. "...she won’t betray us like that man."

With that, Thorne stepped out into the dim corridor, his footsteps fading into the darkness.

~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~ ~~~

I told her the truth. That Raphael had made a deal with the demon Drakar and bore the Rakshesha’s Mark. That I had tried—truly tried—to find a way to cure him, but when the mark finally bloomed, when the corruption consumed him completely... I ended him myself.

When I finished, silence filled the room.

Whitney didn’t speak. She just sat there, motionless, her eyes fixed somewhere between disbelief and understanding. The faint ticking of the clock echoed in the still air, marking the seconds that stretched endlessly between us.

I reached for my glass, only to find it empty. The bottle, too, was drained—sometime during my confession, I’d kept pouring, as if the wine could wash away the weight of my words.

"Can I have another wine?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"You want me..." she began softly, then her voice hardened. "You want me to believe that?"

I turned to look at her, meeting her conflicted gaze. "It’s up to you whether you believe me or not," I said simply. There was no point in arguing. I had no proof—nothing tangible, just the truth as I chose to tell it.

Standing, I walked over to the minibar and took another bottle of wine. The cork popped with a soft click, the faint scent of mana-infused grapes filling the air. I poured another glass, my movements calm, almost mechanical.

Behind me, Whitney was still silent. But even without turning around, I could feel it—the storm in her eyes, swirling with doubt, disbelief, and something dangerously close to sympathy.

Then she let out a long sigh. "Ah!"

I turned just in time to see her push herself up from the couch. She grabbed her coat from the backrest and started striding toward the elevator.

"Where are you going?" I asked, following her quickly and grabbing the wine bottle with me.

"To Uncle Matt," she said without looking back.

"Uncle... Matt?" I echoed.

"Yes," she replied, pressing the elevator button. "He’s the one who told me about your tattoo."

"Ohh..." I muttered softly, realization dawning on me.

So it was Matthew who discovered my Spectral Seal.

I frowned slightly. ’I thought he wouldn’t be able to trace it. Is his Gift really that strong now? His Gift could only sense the last thing a culprit touched. Typical, the author changed it again’ My hand went up to my hair, fingers running through it in frustration. ’This is exactly why I wanted to stop relying on the original story.’

"I don’t think Matthew knows what I just told you," I said firmly. "There’s no way he does. So talking to him won’t help—"

But she cut me off before I could finish. "How do you know that without even talking to him?"

The elevator doors opened with a soft ding, spilling warm light into the hall. We stepped inside, and the mirrored walls reflected the tension between us—her eyes determined, mine wary.

"Just so you know," Whitney said as the doors began to close, "don’t misunderstand. I’m going to him not because I don’t want to believe you..."

Her reflection turned toward me, her expression steady and sincere.

"...but because I do want to believe you."