"Where it all began.Where it must end."
The villa was silent.
No wind. No birds. No breath.
It was like the earth itself had paused to see what I would do.
I stood outside for what felt like hours.
The air hung thick with salt and flowers, decaying sweetness on the breeze. That smell again. Our scent.
It was the perfume of our sins.
I stepped inside.
No gun this time. No badge.
Just me.
And the final page waiting to be written.
The mirror room was empty.
Shards still littered the floor like fallen stars.
Dried blood marked where Lucian had lain, but the trail was gone.
Wiped clean.
He was always meticulous, even in death.
If he had died.
I moved through the villa like a ghost.
Each room a memory.
Each breath a funeral.
And then I found him.
In the greenhouse.
Of course.
He sat in the center, surrounded by new arrangements.
Orchids. Dahlias. Violets.
All the flowers I'd never used.
Ones he'd chosen.
Ones that didn't belong to my crimes—but to his.
His own legacy blooming.
"You came," he said softly.
I didn't speak.
Didn't flinch.
He was thinner. Pale. A scar down his neck from where I'd nearly ended him.
But his eyes—
They were the same.
Still sharp. Still hungry.
Still… mine.
He rose slowly, like he was afraid to scare me.
"I've been preparing," he said. "For this moment. For you."
I tilted my head. "For me, or for the end?"
"Same thing, isn't it?"
We stood in silence.
And then I walked toward him.
Step by step.
"Why?" I asked.
"Because you forgot who you were," he whispered.
"And I couldn't stand to see you rotting in that uniform, pretending to be something you're not."
He stepped closer.
"You're not justice, Aesira. You're art. You're truth. You're death."
I slapped him.
Hard.
He didn't react. Just let it happen.
And then—he smiled.
"There you are."
I grabbed him by the collar. "You used me. You twisted everything. You made me doubt myself."
"I didn't twist anything," he hissed.
"I just held up the mirror. You did the rest."
We stared at each other.
Two people.
One history.
No future.
And then I did something unexpected.
I kissed him.
Not out of love.
Out of closure.
And when I pulled away, I whispered into his mouth:
"This is the last time."
He tried to respond.
But I didn't let him.
I drew the syringe from my sleeve.
Plunged it into his neck.
A mix I'd designed myself—fast, painless, and untraceable.
His eyes widened.
His mouth opened.
But no sound came out.
He stumbled.
Collapsed.
Flowers breaking under his weight.
His last breath was soft.
Almost grateful.
I stood over him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Until he was still.
Completely still.
And then, finally—
I wept.
Because part of me died with him.
The part that understood.
The part that would never be understood again.