"Iria…?"
Seven's vision was still a blur as he looked at Iria seated beside him, her head tilted to one side as if she was sleeping.
"What are—"
He flinched as a sharp pain radiated on his eyes.
Light.
After spending seven days in that complete darkness, the sudden brightness stung and overwhelmed his senses.
Thump.
Slowly, he checked his chest—it was healed. His heart was thumping normally like it never left that place.
Reading it in the novel was one thing, but experiencing it first hand was different.
Slowly, his vision gradually became clearer.
And suddenly, air rushed into his lungs.
The scent of ash and blood filled his nostrils. His body felt stiff, cold, and heavy, but he could move.
Barely.
His gaze then shifted towards the mansion that was now in ruins, and the estate that was in the same situation outside the mansion grounds.
He tried to push himself up.
"Iria, what happened?"
Again, a week had passed and he asked Iria of what happened while he was inside the realm.
Though it was quite obvious seeing the mess around.
But Iria didn't answer.
'Is she asleep?'
Now, with a clear vision, he looked at her.
"Ir… Iria…?"
The sight of her froze him.
Iria's complexion was pale, her cheeks were gaunt, and her eyes were sunken. Her lips, slightly parted, held no breath.
"Hey… Iria!"
His hands trembled as they reached for her. He gripped her shoulder and shook her gently. But as he did, Iria's body slumped to the ground.
Tears started to fall from his eyes.
It was more like his body itself, the original Seven Hart, was the one who let out those tears.
And he just let them fall.
After all, the body knew that she was the one who cared for him.
Some of the tears were from him though. Despite his vow to avoid getting too close to anyone, losing someone who genuinely cared for him—even if it was the boy he possessed—hurt more than he expected.
And he felt guilty that Iria died without knowing that she was serving a whole new different person.
He looked down.
Beside Iria's body was a cup of tea. It was untouched, long gone cold.
Again, tears flowed from his eyes.
This time, it wasn't because of the original Seven, but because of himself. The words he said: "Can you make me one tomorrow too? I… liked it."
He wiped the tears away.
"Iria, you… you fool."
The answer was all around him.
Iria stayed here, trying to be with him, and perhaps hoping for a miracle to save him. She had poured everything into him, even as her own body gave out.
"Why… Why didn't you leave?"
She followed him even in death, but in the end, she ended up going alone.
Slowly, he brushed a strand of Iria's hair on her face and pressed his forehead against hers.
"You should've saved yourself."
Then, after a moment of silence, Seven stared at the cold tea, picked it up, and gulped it in one go.
Gulp.
He set the empty cup down beside her.
"I should've said thank you... just once."
***
Inside the basement prison, everything was still the same as it was back then, as though the destruction above didn't reach it.
Inside the far-end cell, Lythian was still locked in a chair.
'The fuck is wrong with them?'
Lythian barely had enough strength to clench his fists.
The guards intensified the torture process for whatever reason they won't tell him. Instead, they just kept on saying more and more, as if they're enjoying his suffering.
Yet days later, they stopped coming to give him leftover food for seven days.
'I may be immortal, but… I need food too.'
Perhaps it was a part of the torture—hunger. This was far more painful than digging his nails all day.
Creak.
As if in response, the door leading down the basement creaked open.
Step.
Soft sound of footsteps echoed through the silence, as if someone was dragging their feet instead of taking a proper step.
Then, a voice echoed—a voice that Lythian recognized.
Seven Hart.
Step.
"Characters exist because of novels."
Seven muttered as he staggered through the last step of the staircase.
Step.
"Novels exist because of readers."
After his words, the sound of his body hitting the iron cell bars echoed. He barely had enough strength to walk as he was basically 'dead' for seven days.
Still, he took another step.
Step.
Now, Seven was right in front of Lythian's cell.
Both of their clothes were stained with blood, and anyone looking at them now would have a hard time to identify the one who got tortured.
He gripped the rusty iron bar to keep himself from falling, before locking his gaze at Lythian's eyes.
"Readers exist because of the stories characters tell."
Slowly, he slid from the loose iron bar he pulled apart back then.
Step.
Seven grabbed Lythian's hair and pulled him closer.
But instead of slamming it to his knee like he did last time, he didn't. Instead, he just pulled the filthy gag tied around Lythian's mouth off.
"What will it be? Your choice…?"
Seven was referring to the question he asked—about whether Lythian wants freedom or not.
Now that both of them, readers, were now characters living in their favorite novel, it would be a waste for Lythian to rot inside the basement prison.
"..."
But Lythian didn't reply.
Thus, Seven tightened his grip on Lythian's hair, readying himself to slam him against his knee again if he dared to answer, "Just kill me," once more.
"Oh. Son. ji."
Seven forced his throat to say those words in an authoritative way.
"I… I want it."
Though Lythian doubted Seven as he experienced his cruelty first-hand, he had no choice if he wanted freedom.
But Seven, despite hearing Lythian's reply clearly, tilted his head slightly as he feigned ignorance.
"You want what?"
"Freedom, you fucker. I want it."