CHAPTER 467: ’JUST CALL MY NAME.’

Florian felt the tips of his ears grow warm the moment Hendrix reached the part of his story where he and the original Florian had kissed.

For some reason, hearing it from Hendrix’s own mouth made it... different.

The way he spoke of it, the subtle shift in his tone, the almost imperceptible pause—he told it like it mattered.

Like it meant something.

It made Florian feel oddly flustered, embarrassed even.

But the warmth in his face barely had time to settle before Hendrix suddenly stopped mid-story, his gaze snapping toward the door.

"Why... did you stop?" Florian asked, brow furrowing, a flicker of concern in his voice.

Hendrix’s expression sharpened, his tone lowering. "He’s leaving his office. I’m sure he’s about to come."

Without hesitation, he rose from the couch, his movements urgent. "My apologies, but I need to cut our conversation short for now. As much as I want to speak more, it’d be best I don’t aggravate him too much... for now."

Florian blinked, startled not only by the interruption but by Hendrix’s certainty.

’How does he even know that?’

Still, he didn’t ask.

He stood as well, his eyes following Hendrix as the other man closed the distance between them. Hendrix’s gaze softened, an affection lingering there that Florian didn’t quite know how to respond to.

And then—hesitation.

Hendrix’s hand rose slowly, almost cautiously, until his knuckles brushed against Florian’s cheek in a featherlight caress.

Strangely, Florian didn’t recoil. His voice came out quieter than he intended.

"I’ll see you again... if ever you’re alone, and you wish to speak to me again," Hendrix murmured, his words steady and sincere. "Just call my name, and I’ll be there. Okay?"

"...Okay."

A faint smile touched Hendrix’s lips as he took Florian’s hand in his own. His gaze held Florian’s, unwavering, as he bent down and pressed a gentle kiss to the back of his hand.

"Till we meet again."

And then—just like that—he was gone.

Florian stood frozen, eyes widening slightly. "That was..."

...surprising.

But then again, as the strange man, Hendrix had done the same before—appearing without warning and disappearing just as quickly. He should have expected it.

With the room now silent, Florian sank back into the couch, his mind replaying everything he had just heard.

He didn’t know the finer details of how Hendrix and the original Florian had ended up in bed together—Kaz hadn’t lingered on that part in the novel.

All he knew was that they had both been drunk, Florian had seduced Hendrix, and the night had ended in his room.

’To think... they were trauma bonding.’

And both trauma were because of Heinz.

He let out a long, weary sigh.

It wasn’t that he had anything against Hendrix—if anything, he had never formed a clear opinion about him before. But now that he knew the strange man was Hendrix, there was an unavoidable caution in him.

At least one thing was clear: Hendrix was a regressor too. And from what Florian could tell, his goal was to save him—believing he was the real Florian.

He wasn’t being pushy. He wasn’t making demands.

But Florian still didn’t know what his true plans were.

And after the Alexandria incident... he wasn’t ready to take anything at face value.

His thoughts drifted to someone else.

Heinz.

Florian had always known about Heinz’s hatred for Hendrix and Monica, about the blame he placed on them for his mother’s death. But to go so far as to destroy an entire kingdom just to punish them?

Wasn’t that too much?

’I want to understand that he’s in pain... but it’s been years, and...’

As Hendrix said, people were dying. This wasn’t neglect born from distance—this was intentional. Deliberate.

He was purposely killing a kingdom and its people.

’God. And here I thought I couldn’t see him in any worse light.’

Florian dragged his hands through his hair, leaning forward on the couch, the weight of everything pressing down harder than before.

Florian’s mind was a storm—memories and realizations crashing into one another until the weight of them left him staring blankly at the ceiling.

He didn’t move. Couldn’t move.

It was like the couch had anchored him there, forcing him to sit with the thoughts he didn’t want to think.

Until—

"Wait..." His own voice startled him as he slowly pushed himself upright. "Florian was drinking while pregnant?"

The words slipped out like a bad taste in his mouth.

The vision came back to him—the quiet, tense conversation between the doctor, Lysander, and the original Florian. It was before Heinz’s birthday. And in the other memory, the one where Florian told Heinz he was pregnant... that had been after the birthday.

The day after.

Which meant—

Florian’s stomach twisted.

The original Florian had been drinking while pregnant.

A sharp breath escaped him as his hand moved without thought, pressing against his own stomach. It was only a ghost sensation—an echo from someone else’s memories—but it was enough to make his chest tighten.

"Was he... trying to terminate the baby?" The words came out flat, not even a question.

Why else would he drink like that?

The answer hit harder than he wanted to admit.

The original Florian had been so heartbroken... he’d tried to kill the child he and Heinz had made.

’God. Oh my fucking God.’

Florian’s fingers dug into his face as he covered it, frustration and something dangerously close to grief bleeding together.

"Why would you do that, Florian?" His voice was quiet, almost pleading. "Was it because you were heartbroken? Were you scared? Didn’t you love the baby at all?"

But deep down, he already knew it wasn’t that simple.

He’d seen it himself—how the original Florian had suffered alone. The way he’d thrown up, shaking and pale, clutching the bathroom floor like it was the only thing holding him together.

The silent tears, the trembling hands.

It was a pain no one else had known. No one except him and Lysander.

The thought almost made Florian’s own throat close up, but the fury came faster than the tears.

"God. Heinz, what the fuck did you do...?"

"What did I do?"

The voice was calm, but the edges of it... cracked. It was steady in the way glass is steady before it shatters.

Florian’s head snapped toward the sound, his pulse jumping.

The door.

When had it opened?

And in the doorway stood Heinz.

The King.

"Y-Your Majesty?" Florian’s voice faltered. There was a flicker of fear there, the instinctive kind, but Heinz didn’t look angry.

He looked... tired. Bone-deep tired, the kind that didn’t come from a lack of sleep but from something heavier.

And Florian couldn’t help but wonder—

’What the fuck happened?’