The mansion loomed before him, a silent testament to his resolve. He walked slowly toward its gates, a faint smirk tugging at his lips, though it soon faded into a sad smile. With trembling hands, he placed a folded piece of paper at the door. His thoughts swirled in a tempest of emotions—kindness, poverty, hatred, disdain. He didn't know what else to do or how far he could go. The weight of it all was unbearable.

A final decision had to be made. He would stand by his twin's side until death claimed him. Until everything else consumed him entirely. If the world demanded a sinner, a monster, a fallen being, then he would take that mantle. He would bear the sins so that his brother could remain untainted. For the sake of this fractured world, there could be no other way.

A sacrifice was required. But for someone like him, a single drop of blood was enough to tip the scales. No amount of kindness or smiles could conceal the brutal truths of this fate. His brother must become king, no matter the cost. They had been cursed since the day they were born, and if rewriting their fate was possible, he would do it, over and over again.

He thought of everything they had lost—their mother, father, little sister, and all the fragments of their shattered lives. If only he had been stronger, perhaps things might have been different. The metallic scent of blood was thick in the air now, clinging to his senses. His limbs burned and ached, his body chilled by the cold bite of the iron shackles binding his legs.

He tried to move, to push himself up, but his strength had long since failed him. His breaths were shallow and labored, his legs refusing to obey. The cold seeped deep into his skin, and he couldn't stop the blood that dripped from his lips.

His stomach churned as he forced himself to swallow, but his body rebelled, his throat burning. A soft cough escaped him, escalating into violent, wracking spasms that left him gasping for air. Blood stained his trembling hand and blurred his vision.

Defeated, he collapsed onto the cold floor, staring at the crimson light of the blood-red moon through a small, dusty window. He reached out toward it, a sad smile forming on his lips. All the pain, the wounds, the scars, the hatred—he would bear it all.

He was breaking. Tears and laughter mingled as dark memories swirled in his mind. He longed for a moment of peace, a glimpse of happiness he had never known. Just one fleeting memory of freedom, the freedom he could never have.

"You're that man."

The melodic voice cut through the silence, pulling him back to the present. His gaze shifted to the doorway, where a woman in her early thirties stood, her expression sad yet resolute. She approached him, kneeling by his side, her hand gently taking his. A soft laugh escaped her lips as she studied him.

Her touch startled him, and he pushed her away with what little strength he had left. His glare was sharp, even as his body trembled. Slowly, painfully, he sat upright, his gaze fixed on the bloody moon outside.

"I never thought you were the man who united this world. And now… you plan to destroy it. My question is: why?"

Her voice was calm, but her eyes pierced him like daggers. She crouched down, lifting his chin with her hand. Her gaze held his, unwavering. Then, she ruffled his crimson-silver hair, pulling sharply. He winced but remained silent. He had to protect his twin. He must. It was his fate, and he would do whatever it took to see it through.

The woman rose, adjusting her black jacket. From its folds, she drew a gun, pointing it directly at his head. His eyes burned, the flames of azure and crimson flickering within them. She steadied her aim, her finger brushing the trigger.

This was it. He was going to die.

He nodded to her, lifting his head with dignity. A faint smile curved his lips as he closed his eyes. He was ready. All the sins would be his to bear. He would walk the dark path. He would suffer for eternity in hell if it meant his brother could be free. He had been born to play the demon, the fallen. His twin was the angel, the saint, the hope.

"Farewell, man of the silver mask. May the gods bless your path," the woman said, her voice soft and melodic.

A faint smile lingered on his lips as he took his final breath. He felt a sense of contentment, of peace. He had created and destroyed the world. He had taken the sins of his ancestors, of his cursed existence, and borne them all. Freedom no longer mattered. All that mattered was the note he passed to her, the one she nodded at silently.

It was done.

My only reason to keep breathing

To create a world where you can be happy,

A world that cherishes your existence.

A world where you can be yourself,

Where all your dreams come true.

No tears, no pain.

Only your happiness and the smile in your heart.

Yet, above all else—

A world without the one you despise most.

A world free of fear, jealousy, and anger.

A world of meaning and joy.

A world… without me.

Goodbye, my little brother.