I pushed myself up from the leather chair, its contours now molded to the shape of my restless hours, my stomach protesting its neglect with a low growl. Descending the stairs to the living room, I found Levi sprawled on the couch, a book held loosely in his hands. He closed it as I entered, his gaze immediately assessing my disheveled state.

"Pulla? How long have you been reading the yellow files? I saw lines around your eyes," he observed, his tone neutral. Hours, yes. Hours spent immersed in the chronology of his life.

I walked towards him, my steps heavy and sank onto the cushion beside him. "No, Levi," I said, my voice flat, my gaze fixed on some distant point in the room. "I read the black files."

"Interesting. Did you enjoy the journey, dear?" A hint of his usual sardonic edge, but something else flickered beneath the surface, a cautious curiosity perhaps. "Instead of lashing out like every single time I sense some other feeling from you… Hm…" He paused, his right eye crinkled. "Dilation of pupils, subtle sheen in palms, fixed gaze… either horror or guilt."

The 'journey'. What a euphemism for the descent into the documented abyss of his life. He's waiting, isn't he? Anticipating the usual explosion, the accusatory words. But the horror… the guilt… it's a different beast entirely. It's not directed at him, not this time.

"Horror at the world you navigated… and a shame so deep I don't know how to even begin to explain it."

"Hm… Horror I can understand, I suppose," he replied, his gaze still sharp. "But the shame… that particular emotion remains a foreign concept to me."

"Shame, Levi," I repeated, my voice thick with it. "Shame upon realizing the staggering depth of my own ignorance, clinging to my simplistic worldview, while I couldn't even bring myself to look at the documented horrors in those 'yellow' files. I've done nothing but offer naive pronouncements about human cost and my black-and-white morality, all while being nothing more than a detached observer in an ordeal with very real victims… including you." My gaze finally met his, pleading for understanding. "I am so deeply sorry, Levi. Please… tell me. Teach me how to make this right. What can I do now?"

"Make it 'right'..." he repeated. "So, the most logical first step… leveraging your wealth for direct donations to the charities now struggling to pick up the pieces."

Levi watched me. "Also, Raphael," he said, his tone devoid of sharpness. "I do not blame you for your 'naive' view, as you call it. No. It is understandable, even logical, that you did not fully grasp the 'why' behind my actions. Perhaps you intellectually understood the concept of their cruelty, but it lacked the visceral reality for you."

It makes sense. It's practical. But… is that all there is? No anger, no resentment for my constant questioning, my distrust? I can barely stomach the thought of the yellow files. He lived it. He documented it for fifteen years. And he doesn't blame me for not grasping it? It feels… too easy.

"So, pragmatism then. Charity and public pronouncements. It makes sense, logically. But... is that all you want from me now?"

"Oh?" A flicker of something akin to amusement touched his lips. "Is Pulla seeking penance? Atonement for the egregious crime of being a judgmental, self-absorbed, self-righteous individual? My dear Raphael," a hint of sardonic wit returned to his voice, "I hardly believe I am the appropriate arbiter of absolution, considering my own rather… extensive list of transgressions."

Part of me probably is looking for some kind of… not forgiveness, not really, but some way to alleviate this crushing weight of guilt.

"Yeah… I think so…" The admission felt like another layer of skin peeling away.

"Ah, why would I bother?" he replied, a dry amusement coloring his tone. "You would inflict far more effective punishment upon yourself, stewing in that potent cocktail of guilt and shame. My involvement is hardly necessary. Though, I can certainly offer dry commentary on your self-flagellation, if it amuses you."

"No… Levi… I am so sorry. Truly."

He chuckled, brittle, humorless. "And? Who cares, Raphael? I certainly do not. But at least now," his gaze sharpened, a hint of something dark crossed his eyes, "you have finally been granted a glimpse into the relentless injustice that shaped my entire three decades of existence in this world."

"That glimpse…” I repeated, the word feeling inadequate to describe the horrifying vista into his past. “it was horrifying. But it also made your actions... not excusable, but understandable in a way they weren't before. Thank you, for showing me even that much."

"’Excusable’." Levi chuckled again, the sound dry and devoid of humor. "Ah, my dear Raphael, are you attempting to provoke a theatrical confrontation, a shouting match perhaps, in the hopes that I might then bestow some form of absolution upon your burdened conscience? Let me assure you, my motivations, were not rooted in any desire to soothe someone's moral sensibilities. Those files, those actions, were born from the reality of my existence, and the countless others who suffered under that regime. We simply did what was necessary to survive and ultimately dismantle that system. You, however," his gaze remained steady, unwavering, "you still view it all through the prism of abstract morality, a detached philosophical exercise."

I'm still trying to frame it in terms of right and wrong, excusable or not. Absolution… that's what I want, isn't it? To be told it's okay that I didn't understand, that my judgment wasn't entirely wrong. But he won't give me that. He can't.

My gaze locked with his, pleading. "No, you're right. It wasn't about absolution. It's about... understanding. Or trying to. So, help me understand, Levi. What was truly 'necessary'?"

He met my gaze, and a weariness I hadn't fully registered before seemed to settle upon his features. "You read the black files, Raphael, meaning you read my detached observations, my strategic assessments. I am sure you are curious as to why I did not simply butcher every single noble, enact some grand purge. Because it would solve nothing, Raphael. Forget about abstract morality, and even forget about me for a moment. The immediate consequence of such widespread violence would have been catastrophic for the noblewomen, the very individuals already overworked, tormented relentlessly, and stripped of any agency. There were times, stark and brutal, where the abuse would reach such a fever pitch that some of them practically begged me, in hushed, desperate whispers, to kill their husbands, to end their suffering. But I did not. Not because of some inherent morality or the kind of empathetic response someone like you might expect, no. Once again, the impulsive death of an abuser, while momentarily satisfying, would solve nothing in the long term. It would only subject the victim to further, perhaps even more insidious, abuse. That survivor would be dragged through a very public trial, their trauma dissected and sensationalized, their character assassinated, and they would be tormented once again by their remaining family, eager to protect their own standing.

"So, what did I do, Raphael? I found those men, and I either intimidated them, leveraging their own hidden vices, or I blackmailed them, using their secrets as a leash. And if I lacked that direct leverage, I kept them occupied with their own depravities, ensuring their attention was diverted, their power diluted. I would receive calls, sometimes daily, from those noblewomen, each plea a desperate cry urging me to finish my plan. But I could not act rashly, because I needed time, to ensure that no one, escaped my grasp. Every single one of us who suffered, who endured, we waited for that day, the day of freedom. And even though we all bore the scars of their cruelty, and perhaps many of them even resented me for not resorting to bloody vengeance, there was a fundamental understanding, unspoken but deeply felt, that we could not fight this war with widespread bloodshed. Because there are no victors in any war, only victims."

My simplistic view of ending the tyranny with a grand, bloody stroke... it would have only created more victims.

Fifteen years of those desperate calls, those whispered pleas for an end. And he had to hold back, play the long game, ensure no one escaped. A war without bloodshed... Not out of some moral high ground, but out of a pragmatic understanding of the endless cycle of violence. Victims, sufferers, pain... that's all war leaves behind. He saw that. He understood that. And I... I questioned his 'human cost'.

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"So, it wasn't about morality, not in the way I understand it," I repeated, the words feeling clumsy and inadequate. "It was about... minimizing harm. Protecting the vulnerable, even if it meant navigating morally ambiguous paths, getting your hands dirty..."

He cut me off with a frustrated groan. "Dirty? You still dare to use such simplistic terms? And it was not merely 'minimizing harm,' Raphael, it was to end it. To tear it out by the roots, even if everyone endured more and more suffering in the agonizing process. Why do you still insist on framing it through the lens of morality? Why? Why can't you, just once, look at something without the comforting filter of your fictional ideals, but confront its unvarnished reality? We simply wanted to breathe, Raphael. That is the beginning and the end of it."

"I'm trying, Levi. I really am." I shifted on the couch. My gaze was fixed on him, earnest. "To see it without my filters, my ingrained notions of black and white. But it's hard. It goes against everything I thought I knew about right and wrong. But I want to understand your right and wrong."

Levi took a centering breath, gathering his thoughts. He finally met my gaze, a weariness lingering in the depths of his eyes. "There are no inherent 'right' and 'wrong' in existence, Raphael. There are simply actions, and their consequences. Those women… they did not endure those clandestine abortions because it aligned with some abstract moral code, even if they held personal beliefs about such things. They went through that process, concealing their reality from their own families, because they possessed a chilling foresight. They knew the next generation, their own children, would be condemned to the same cycle of torment, or those pregnancies would yield offspring either stillborn or so severely disabled that even someone with your… sensibilities might view euthanasia as an act of profound mercy."

He paused. "Ah…" he murmured, a hint of self-deprecation in his voice. "Perhaps… perhaps I am the 'wrong' person to be explaining the nuances of such brutal realities."

"No, Levi… you should explain it."

He let out a long sigh, his gaze fixed on the ceiling as if seeking solace in the blank expanse. "I said that, Raphael, because every time you speak of 'right' or 'wrong' in this context, it feels like a hammer against my skull. It leaves me weary, the thought that even though you couldn't bring yourself to even glance at the 'yellow' files, you still believe you possess the authority to 'judge' my actions, or the actions of all those people who were trapped in that nightmare. It angers me, Raphael, it burns like a flame to witness this ongoing injustice, this continued application of your comfortable morality to a reality you can't even stomach to look at directly."

I haven’t earned the right to judge. I haven’t even dared to look at the truth. I need to shut up. Just listen.

"I want to try. Truly try to grasp... not 'understand,' perhaps, but to at least begin to comprehend the reality you navigated. Not just your strategic notes, but the truth itself."

Levi sighed again, a fraction less weary this time, perhaps sensing a shift in my perspective. "Then, first of all, banish the word 'understand' from your vocabulary, at least for now. Simply listen to a tale, if you will. I will not subject you to the visceral horrors of the 'yellow' files, but to offer you a mere glimpse, a single chilling fact: Nobles possess a form of immunity. They can only be judged within the royal court, and their jury consists solely of their peers – other nobles. Therefore, the outcome for victims is often a pittance, some hush money if they are exceptionally fortunate. Most of the time, these cases are never even reported to the court; instead, the nobles employ intimidation, direct threats against the victims and their families. In the rare instance of a murder case involving a noble, perhaps some blood money might be offered, a paltry sum to silence the aggrieved. And in cases of sexual abuse or violence… most often, absolutely nothing. The victims are left broken, silenced, with no recourse whatsoever."

"Okay." I nodded slowly. "So, if the legal system was a complete sham, a tool to protect the very perpetrators... then what other options were there for the victims? For you, Levi?"

He sighed, a hint of grim satisfaction now coloring his tone. "None, Raphael. There was absolutely nothing within that system for the victims themselves. It was only after I began to examine their so-called 'laws' that the realization dawned: there was no legitimate avenue for escape, no possibility of true justice for them. So, I created my own. Within the framework of my charity, I offered those victims sanctuary and financial support. These individuals – servants, laborers, sex workers, illegitimate children cast aside by their noble parents, even those who had been defrauded – they entrusted me with their testimonies, the scraps of evidence they had managed to gather, often at great personal risk. The purpose of those files, Raphael, was never the naive hope that those nobles would one day face a fair trial within their own corrupt system. It was blackmail. Intimidation. The threat of public exposure. Because a trial of that magnitude, involving hundreds upon hundreds of victims, would have dragged on for decades, lost within the labyrinthine bureaucracy. And as you know, we barely dissolved that entire archaic system a month ago, right here within these walls. By gathering that evidence, I held a sword over their heads. I threatened to release their vile deeds to the public, to ensure their reputations, their very existence, would be utterly destroyed, their carcasses trampled by the very citizens they had so brutally oppressed. They complied, as you witnessed in the council room the day the King died. And now," a hint of cold satisfaction touched his lips, "they are where they belong: rotting in jail, stripped of their power and their impunity."

The council room…

It makes sense now. It wasn't a sudden shift of heart; it was exposure.

"The risk you took, gathering all that evidence... if they had found out... it's staggering. You put yourself in incredible danger for them," I said, the thought sending a shiver down my spine.

"Danger?" He chuckled. "No, Raphael. I was a prized stud horse to a dukedom. I never truly faced danger at the hands of the nobility. Remember the day they shot you, right here in this house, from that very window?" He gestured towards the garden. "They stopped the instant I moved towards you. Because those arrogant fools couldn't afford to lose my 'sperm', as crude as it sounds. I wasn't threatened because they feared me; I was protected because I was a priceless asset in their increasingly inbred and diminishing bloodlines."

"That's... incredibly dehumanizing, Levi. To be valued only for your ability to procreate. And you endured that for years, all while planning their downfall."

Levi turned his face towards me with asharp movement. The cold fury that blazed in his eyes was unmistakable, and this time, it was directed squarely at me. "And what did you do, Raphael?" he demanded, his voice low and steady. "When my own mother stole my sperm – stole it, Raphael – when I was still a minor, and then distributed it amongst the noblewomen? Do you even comprehend the potential ramifications, what might have happened to those children if I had not been successful in dismantling that system? You… you talked me out of it, Raphael. For what? To protect the abstract 'agency' of a woman you had never even met, while I, your own husband, sat right beside you, grappling with the implications of my stolen genetic material and its consequences?"

The hypocrisy... it's suffocating. I was so concerned with an abstract ideal that I completely disregarded the concrete reality of his suffering, his stolen future, the potential inheritance of his struggles. Gods... the depth of my ignorance, my self-righteousness...

"It's suffocating, Levi. This shame... it's a crushing weight. What can I do now to make any of this right?" I pleaded.

"It is far too late for that now, Raphael," Levi said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion. "The children are born. And Lady Elira… she ultimately decided to place them for adoption with another family. Because of what I told her months ago, on that very table, while you sat right beside me, oblivious. I warned her that her own family would abandon her once my plans came to fruition. And that is what transpired. After the nobility was dissolved, Elira came here, to this house, and begged us to adopt the children, Raphael. Me! The one whose body was violated to create them. I still offered her substantial financial support and ensured the children would receive a comprehensive education, even though I possessed neither legal nor, in my estimation, moral obligation to do so." He closed his eyes tightly, a visible wince of pain or weariness. "I refrained, Raphael, because I knew. I knew you would never cease your pronouncements. You would deem it 'cruel' or some other such sentimental nonsense."

"All my 'sentimental nonsense' had a tangible cost, didn't it? My rigid views, my interference... they made your nightmare even worse for you, for Elira, and for those kids. It’s devastating to realize that my so-called morality hurt people..."

"Well…" he said, his voice laced with a weary resignation, "it took you a year to finally grasp that…" He paused, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes before continuing. "It is not about your morality, Raphael. The fundamental issue lies in your persistent black-and-white thinking. Just four days ago, during that heated argument we had over Queen’s suicide – another person you had never even met, another situation viewed through your rigid lens – I posed a direct question to you. Murder committed in self-defense is still legally defined as murder. But is it murder for you, Raphael?”

Murder in self-defense... legally, yes. But morally? That's where the black and white blurs, where context matters, where survival instincts clash with abstract principles.

"Levi…" I began, the question hanging heavy in the air. "I... I honestly don't know. I can't give you a simple 'yes' or 'no' to a question like that. But…" I paused, a knot forming in my chest at the very thought. "But I think... even if I were forced to take a life, the guilt of it, would eventually consume me, would kill me in a different, slower way in the long run."

"Good," Levi murmured. "Baby steps, perhaps. But significant nonetheless. At least you hesitated, and even considered the potential, deeply personal consequences that such an action would entail."

"I… I honestly don't know what to say, Levi," I admitted, the weight of our conversation pressing down on me. "I… I think I need a drink."

"Do drink, Raphael, if you wish so. I find my own cravings lie elsewhere. While I don't share your need for alcohol, a cigarette would be… agreeable right now."