CHAPTER 141: WIN AND REGRET ( EMILIANO’S POV )

I don’t need my wife. Not anymore.

It’s fine like this.

I have about 3 liters of blood.

More than enough to end my research. Back to my lab, just like all the other ordinary days.

But without Luther.

The mouth split first.

Subject #59 had a weak jaw. When the seizure hit, the tension cracked his cheeks like glass. Blood poured between his teeth. Pink foam, then darker. His tongue bloated up and slid halfway out. I didn’t blink. I just watched.

He was dead by the five-minute mark.

1.8ml. Thigh. Full-body spasms. Ruptured mouth, asphyxiation. Died: 5:02.

Still useless.

I stripped the gloves and grabbed a new pair. My fingers stuck to the inside. Probably dried blood. I didn’t bother to check if it was mine.

The next subject was already strapped down. #60. Younger omega. Skinny. Barely conscious. Eyes barely open. Might’ve been drugged already. Easier that way.

I loaded the next dose. 1.0ml. Injected into the calf this time, just for variety.

The moment the needle touched skin, he flinched. Then twitched. Then twisted. His body folded inward. Legs shook. Jaw clicked. I leaned in.

Skin bubbled around the injection site. Purple veins spread like a web. His eyes rolled up. Blood leaked from both ears.

He died in under three minutes.

Too fast. Probably nerve collapse. Repeat lower dose.

I stayed where I was. Pen in one hand, vial in the other, just watching the corpse twitch. The stench was thick. Copper and bile. My lab coat was sticking to my back, soaked through. I didn’t remember sweating.

I needed water. Sleep. A break.

Instead, I opened the drawer and picked the next vial.

Luther would’ve told me I looked like sh-t.

Would’ve said it with that flat voice and half-lidded stare, like he was too bored to pretend to care. He never made anything easy.

But he’d still hand me a glass of water anyway.

Or sit beside me without saying anything.

Or ask me if I was trying to die from dehydration like an idiot.

He wasn’t soft.

But he remembered things. Like how I took my coffee. Or which of my pills gave me nosebleeds. He hated me

. And still, he remembered.

He didn’t cry after I cut him open. Not when I starved him. Not when I kept him in that windowless room for a week. But he cried every night in my arms until he was fast asleep.

Ungrateful little b-stard.

I should’ve killed him. Should’ve ended it the day I got what I needed.

But I liked him too much. That was the problem.

Still do.

Subject #61. Average build. Moderate scarring.

I slice the upper arm open myself this time. Fresh wound. Controlled bleeding. Inject straight into the muscle.

The body tensed, then jolted. Teeth clenched. The back arched. Skin flushed red. Eyes blinked fast—too fast—and the heart monitor spiked.

But didn’t stop.

He didn’t die.

Not in five minutes. Not in ten.

He was shaking. Foaming at the mouth. But he was alive.

I stared. Waited. Nothing burst. Nothing collapsed. No melted organs. No popped eyeballs. No screaming, even.

0.7ml. Direct into open wound. Arm. Strong reaction. No fatal outcome. First survivor. Monitor for 1 hour.

I stood there for a while.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t write anything else.

Just watched the numbers hold steady on the screen. His heart kept beating. Eyes open. Chest rising.

Stable.

I walked away and sanitized my gloves.

Hands shaking again.

I reached for the pen. Dropped it. Picked it up. Wrote the result again. Made sure it was real.

He survived.

He survived Luther’s blood.

I did it. I found the dosage and the method of applying.

I repeated that thought.

Again.

It didn’t help.

I still wanted to hear his voice. That sh-tty laugh. That smartass tone. The way he’d raise one eyebrow when I got excited over something he didn’t understand.

He wasn’t afraid of me anymore.

Not even when I hurt him.

He was always like that. Complicated. Rude. Honest. I hated him.

I miss him so much I feel sick.

I check the camera feed on the subject. Still breathing. Still alive.

Still a success.

The experiment worked. I should feel triumphant. Like everything meant something now.

But all I feel is cold.

I sit back down and stare at the wall.

I think about the last time he looked at me. The way he said nothing. The way he knew I wouldn’t stop him from leaving.

I could’ve stopped him.

I could’ve said: "Please stay, puppy."

He would’ve rolled his eyes. He might’ve spit in my face. He would still have left, wouldn’t he?

I inject the next subject automatically. No notes. No focus.

They die. Fast.

I don’t even look up.

I just sit there.

I have my victory. The key to my perfect society.

Yet I was still miserable.

I just keep replaying that scene in my mind:

"Are you not in love with me anymore?"

I needed to know. Even if the answer would ruin me.

"Why would that matter? I won’t let you torment anyone anymore with my blood! Not as long as I am alive!"

That was it, then. He was setting the terms. Divorcing me.

"Then I’ll just kill you."

I said it like I meant it. Maybe I did. Maybe if I said it enough, it would become real — the apathy, the detachment, the end. I had enough data. Enough samples. Enough pain.

It’s better to be a widow than to see you in the arms of someone else.

"What?"

"There is enough blood in your body to finalize my study. I don’t need you alive anymore. Your flower is withering anyway. You’re useless to me now."

He cried.

Not loud. Not messy. Just tears — slow, silent, steady. He wiped them once. Then gave up. His whole body sagged like something inside him had finally gone out.

I should have felt triumphant.

I didn’t.

His shoulders were shaking just a little. Not from fear. From something worse.

Disappointment.

And he didn’t scream. He didn’t curse me. He didn’t run. He just stood there — broken, quiet — like he wasn’t even trying to convince me anymore. Like he’d already said goodbye.

Then he stepped closer.

I didn’t move. I should have. But I didn’t.

He took my hands. Warm. Bloody. And lifted them to his throat. I let him. Out of habit. Out of instinct. Out of something I couldn’t name.

His skin was so soft.

His pulse throbbed under my fingers.

"Do it then."

His voice was steady. That scared me more than any of his yelling.

"Do it. F-cking kill me and get this over with!"

I tried.

I swear I tried.

But my hands wouldn’t close. Not really. They hovered. Trembled. My body refused the command.

He didn’t even flinch. Just stared at me like he wanted it — like he wanted me to make it clean, final. But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t let him go.

And worse — I still wanted him. Even useless.

My hands dropped.

Slow. Reluctant. Shameful.

He stared into me like he saw right through everything. Not the monster. Not the scientist. Just the coward beneath it.

His tears kept falling.

He didn’t wipe them away.

And for the first time...

I cried too.

Quietly. Without realizing.

I couldn’t understand why it hurt so much.

He turned away. He walked.

And now I have it all. All I ever wanted.

I am about to build a new world.

Yet all I can think about is him.

"F-ck, I miss my wife!"