Chapter Two-Hundred Forty-Nine: Sylvia's Sacrifice

Chapter 249

Sylvia’s Sacrifice

Demetrio paced around his lodge with Stewart, Ashley, and Blair in the living room. When the door cracked open, he gasped and rushed to it, expecting to see Sylvia. Jordi stood there looking depleted and overcome with grief. Demetrio gazed at the younger man for a second, and his eyelids dipped. Jordi hung his head. Ashley knit their eyebrows, and their heart sank at that look on Jordi’s face; they immediately knew it wasn’t good.

Blair: “What’s that fat cow doing here?!”

He huffed. Jordi glared at Blair.

Demetrio: “Blair, please!”

Jordi: “I’m so sorry, Mr. Donati.”

He cried. Stewart cupped his mouth and inhaled sharply. Ashley fell to the floor and cried.

Ashley: “O-Oh no, Sylvia!”

They sobbed.

Demetrio: “Wh-What happened, Jordi?”

His bottom lip trembled.

Jordi: “...The same thing that happened to Radinka.”

He said grimly. Demetrio tightly pursed his lips and nodded. He slowly sat on his armchair and sobbed into his hands.

Blair: “She did that to save Ashley and me!”

He nodded. Jordi shot his hateful glare at Blair. Ashley gaped at Blair.

Jordi: “How can you be so jovial during this?!”

He rasped.

Blair: “Because she wanted me to go with Ashley?”

He asked dumbly.

Ashley: “The real monster is you! Sylvia is… GONE! And all you can think about is you!”

They cried at Blair, disturbed by his chipper demeanor.

Demetrio sobbed into his hands.

Demetrio: “Blair, please, not now.”

He gazed at his grandson with his rheumy eyes.

Blair: “Oh, if you went with me, she would still be here, Ashley!”

He huffed.

Blair: “You didn’t listen to Jordi, Tristan, or anyone! It’s your fault!”

Jordi clenched his fists, glaring hotly at Blair as he snapped. Bowing their head, Ashley was overcome with guilt as a sting pierced their heart.

Then he relaxed his stance.

Jordi: “...Why didn’t you go with him when we asked you to?”

He asked Ashley.

Ashley: “I didn’t go with him ‘cause I feared what he would do to me if I was alone with him! So, I tried to leave on my own!”

Jordi drew a long breath.

Jordi: “When I told you, and others told you to go with him, you should have GONE, not argued with us!”

He snapped and slashed his hand through the air. Ashley flinched and embraced themself.

Stewart rose.

Stewart: “Jordi, I understand you’re upset, but what’s done is done.”

Jordi turned to him.

Jordi: “Them going with Blair could have saved Sylvia!”

He snapped at him. Blair smiled smugly.

Ashley: “I-I’m so sorry… this is all my fault!”

They sobbed into their hands, overcome with guilt and grief. Demetrio sobbed loudly and waved his hands frantically.

Demetrio: “Don’t argue, please! Sylvia came to ensure Blair’s safety, and she died for it.”

He warbled.

Jordi: “I am so sorry, Mr. Donati.”

He knelt to him and hugged him. Demetrio cried into his arms.

Jordi: “Is there anything I can do?”

He asked him. Demetrio shook his head.

He raised his head and dried his eyes. Jordi took out some Kleenex and handed it to him. Demetrio blew his nose and sobbed.

Demetrio: “I’ll let you know… You’re a good young man, Jordi.”

He smiled sadly. Blair rolled his eyes. Jordi smiled and pursed his lips.

Jordi: “Would you guys take Ashley home?”

He asked Stewart. Ashley pursed their lips and nodded in agreement.

Stewart: “Of course. I think it’s wise we head home.”

Jordi nodded.

Jordi: “I’ll get their stuff here.”

He raked his fingers through his hair and drew a short breath. Ashley embraced themself and slowly nodded.

Ashley: “Thank you, Jordi… I-I’m sorry…”

Hiding their face in their hands, they wept.

Jordi said nothing and stepped out of the lodge into the night air. He brushed his tears away with his fists and walked down the beach as the two moons cast their light upon him.

The cool night air bit at Jordi’s skin, but he barely felt it. His entire body felt hollowed out, as if a vital piece of him had been carved away the moment he saw Sylvia transform into that hideous monster. He walked along the beach, the rhythmic sound of the waves providing a stark contrast to the chaotic storm of emotions raging inside his chest.

The thought hit him like a physical blow. She had sacrificed herself. The unfairness of it—the cruel, cyclical nature of the tragedy—left him feeling exhausted and bitter. He had tried to be the voice of reason, to tell everyone to listen, to follow the instructions that could have kept them safe. But his words had been ignored, or worse, fought against.

And then there was Blair.

Jordi’s hands balled into fists, his fingernails digging into his palms. How could anyone be so vacant, so utterly disconnected from the magnitude of such a loss? Standing in that lodge, listening to Blair’s dismissive, self-centered rambling while Ashley wept and Demetrio broke down in his arms, had pushed Jordi to his breaking point. He had wanted to scream, to shake the smugness right off Blair’s face, but he had swallowed his rage for the sake of the grieving grandfather.

He looked up at the two moons, their pale light illuminating the vast, indifferent ocean. Guilt gnawed at him, despite his anger. He felt responsible for everyone. He wanted to protect Ashley, to keep them safe, to be the one who could fix things. But he couldn’t fix this. Sylvia was gone. The weight of that reality pressed down on his shoulders, heavier than he had ever felt before.

He just wanted to take Ashley home, away from this place, away from Blair, away from the shadows that seemed to be claiming everyone he cared about. He needed to get them out, to keep them safe, even if he didn't know how to keep himself together.

~

Celeste sat high in the branches of the tree by the lodge. The world below felt impossibly small and painfully loud, even in its current quietude. She wasn’t one for sentiment, but the sudden vacancy Sylvia left behind felt like a void that refused to be ignored.

She thought back to that first day—the contract. It had been business, a way to channel her skills into something that wasn’t just blood and dismemberment. Sylvia had been the one who saw her not just as a weapon, but as a potential guardian. Sylvia had been the bridge between Celeste and this fractured, chaotic family, the only reason Celeste had tolerated the absurdity of protecting someone as insufferable as Blair for as long as she had.

Why her? she wondered, her gaze drifting to the beach where the remnants of the tragedy still lingered. Sylvia had poured everything into Demetrio and that… that ungrateful shithead.

Blair didn’t deserve a fraction of the loyalty Sylvia had offered him. He was a vacuum of self-importance, a spoiled child who had thrived on Sylvia’s patience while offering nothing but screams and selfishness in return—seeing Sylvia die for him—seeing her sacrifice herself while Blair remained blissfully, infuriatingly oblivious to the magnitude of the cost—grated on Celeste like sand in a wound.

She’s a natural-born killer; she had seen people snuffed out like candles and knew the indifference of the world. But this was different. This wasn’t a mission gone wrong; it was a sacrifice for someone who didn’t care about what he had lost.

She tightened her grip on the branch. The world is a cruel, cyclical joke, she thought. Sylvia was the anchor that kept the Donati manor from drifting into chaos, and with her gone, Celeste knew exactly what was coming next. The family would break, and Blair… Blair would likely never even realize why.

She looked up at the moons again, the indifferent light casting long shadows across the ocean. Sylvia was gone. Her contract was over long ago because of Blair. And now, all that was left was the cleanup, and the cold realization that the only person worth protecting in this entire mess was the one who could no longer be saved.

~

The smoke curled into the cool night air, twisting like a ghost before dissolving into the darkness. Tristan stared at the two moons, their light catching the silver threads of his pajamas, but the chill didn't bother him. It was the silence inside the house—a silence that felt heavy and absolute—that gnawed at him.

He tapped the ash off his cigarette, the ember glowing briefly in the gloom. He’d lost friends before, seen the jagged edges of life and death, but this… this felt different. She hadn't just been a resource; she had been the calm in his storm.

He leaned against the railing. The world felt colder tonight. Deimos stepped, carrying a cup of tea, and handed it to Tristan.

Deimos: “Here. Lena made this for you.”

Tristan smiled and thanked him. He blew on it and took a sip.

Deimos: “It’s vanilla chamomile. Might help you sleep.”

Tristan laughed bitterly.

Tristan: “Is that a joke?”

Deimos embraced his boyfriend from behind and inhaled the floral scent of his pearly white hair.

Deimos: “How are you doing?”

Tristan: “I don’t know, Deimos. I lost another good friend to Ichiro’s madness.”

Tristan stared down at his reflection in the tea.

Tristan: “Sylvia went above and beyond for that family. She sent us on a mission to retrieve an emerald for Ivy’s engagement ring, only for Ivy to complain that it wasn’t an emerald.”

He laughed a humorless laugh.

Tristan: “...And now she died for Blair.”

He took one last drag of his cigarette and flicked the butt away. Deimos pursed his lips.

Deimos: “What a lame cause to die for.”

Tristan shook his head, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Deimos: “People told Ashley to go with Blair. Why didn’t they listen?”

Tristan heaved a deep sigh, folding his arms on the railing.

Tristan: “Emotions. They come from another planet. They don’t understand how ruthless and cruel this world is. I reckon they come from a peaceful planet where no one ever saw a war; there were no conflicts, and everything was harmonious.”

He heaved a deep sigh as he gazed at the two pale moons.

Tristan: “Why would such an alien race ever want to come here on Reona, the most feared planet in the galaxy?”

Deimos shrugged.

Deimos: “Find love? They seem to gravitate to any man who shows them some kindness, no matter how fake it is.”

He replied, thinking about Lazaros. Tristan gazed at Deimos and looked away.

Tristan: “I think the reason is deeper than that. No alien in their right mind would come here.”

He muttered.

Deimos: “Xuprans sometimes land on Reona.”

Tristan scoffed.

Tristan: “They’re brainless. I don’t equate Ashley to a Xupran.”

Tristan drained his cup of tea and set it on the table.

Deimos: “Jaxon blames Ashley for Sylvia’s death.”

Tristan nodded.

Tristan: “It’s easy to point fingers. Whether Ashley went with Blair or not, the outcome wouldn’t be good because Ichiro is determined, and I cornered him. Everyone is blaming Ashley, but not the man who invented the virus to mutate humans into richonoids and the man who injected her: Ichiro.”

He explained.

Tristan raked his fingers through his hair.

Tristan: “Christian blames Jaxon for Kristen’s death, and he won’t speak to me because I defended him. Funny how that all works.”

He laughed sadly and bitterly.

Deimos: “Christian is your step-brother?”

Tristan nodded.

Tristan: “Yes, he is. His father was Rémo Chuquet.”

Deimos: “Why is his surname ‘Trémaux’ and not ‘Chuquet’?’

He arched an eyebrow.

Tristan: “After Papa and that thing wed, he adopted him and thus adopted the surname, which is… interesting because not long after the adoption was finalized, that thing sent him to be with his maternal grandparents.”

He explained.

Deimos: “Why keep that name?”

Tristan shrugged.

Tristan: “I don’t know. I don’t sit and ponder the mind of my step-brother.”

Deimos: “How did his father die?”

Tristan laughed a bit.

Tristan: “A hunting ‘accident’ in Nandrasana.”

He shook his head.

Tristan: “It was no accident; Narcisse shot him. He never liked Charlotte’s suitors, but he seemed to spare Papa.”

He said, his voice trailing off.

Deimos: “Why is that?”

Tristan: “...I don’t know.”

He replied and shuddered.

Enfolding Tristan in a warm embrace, Deimos gently stroked his slender arms, sliding his calloused palms over Tristan’s soft, delicate hands. Turning toward him, Tristan offered a tender smile.

Deimos: “My place is by your side, Tristan. I’ll cross any line to keep you safe.”

He murmured against Tristan’s neck, sending a sudden shiver through him.

Tristan: “Thanks, Deimos.”

He whispered, and the two kissed deeply.

~

Celeste rested her head on Fabien’s bare chest as they lay together in bed. After showering, the two had changed into their nightwear; he wore green plaid pajama pants, and she was dressed in a black tank top and panties. His hand idly traced her shoulder.

Fabien lay in the dark, the rhythm of Celeste’s breathing against his chest a stark reminder of how fragile things really were. He could feel the tension coiled in her muscles, a sharp contrast to the stillness of the room. He didn’t need to ask what she was thinking; he knew the weight of this day had left a mark on her that no amount of silence could heal.

Fabien: “Wanna talk about it, babe?”

He asked her.

Celeste: “Not really.”

Fabien nodded and wrapped his arm around her.

Fabien: “We’ll be heading home tomorrow.”

He kissed her head. She closed her eyes, relieved to hear those words. She wanted to get away from this place.

~

Ichiro sat in his dining room eating pork yakisoba that Ruby made for him. He had his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his tie loosened. He lifted a steaming heap of noodles, pork, and cabbage to his mouth with his chopsticks.

The first bite was pure comfort.

The noodles had a satisfying, chewy resistance, perfectly coated in the tangy, slightly sweet, and deeply savory sauce. The pork belly melted on his tongue, its rich, smoky fat balanced effortlessly by the sharp crunch of the cabbage and the electric bite of the pickled ginger. Each flavor hit in harmonious waves—smoky, sweet, salty, and sharp.

Ichiro chewed slowly, letting out a soft sigh he hadn't realized he was holding in. With every bite, the stress of the day seemed to dissolve, replaced by the simple, honest warmth of a well-crafted meal.

That goddamn Tristan, he thought as he resumed eating. He didn’t know who he hated more, Tristan or Fabien. Then he realized he hated French men; they either are one step ahead of him in his plans or are stealing his woman.

Then he thought about Borko.

~

1982

The scent of soy sauce hung in the air of the private tatami room, grounding the space in a quiet, traditional elegance. Outside the sliding paper doors, the faint, polite murmur of the bustling restaurant hummed.

22-year-old Ichiro Tachibana knelt on the woven straw mat, his posture stiff, his eyes sharp and analytical as he watched Borko across the low table. Ichiro’s hands moved with practiced precision as he poured sake into a small ceramic cup.

Ichiro: “Thanks for traveling here on such short notice, Borko,”

He remarked, his tone even, though his gaze searched the older man’s face for any sign of hesitation.

Borko leaned forward, the shadows of the room playing across his features.

Borko: “When the stakes are high, distance becomes irrelevant, Ichiro. I’m more interested in the serum you’re developing. You mentioned testing it very soon.”

Ichiro allowed a thin, calculated smile to touch his lips. He set the sake bottle down, the ceramic clinking softly against the table.

Ichiro: “It’s not a serum, Borko; it’s a weapon. It’s a biological weapon. It will neutralize any threat and eradicate any obstacle that stands in my way. It will be a means to control people.”

He gestured to the spread of sashimi and small, intricately prepared dishes between them.

Ichiro: “Eat. We have much to discuss before the night is through, and I suspect what I have to offer will be far more palatable than the meal.”

Borko picked up his chopsticks, his expression unreadable.

Borko: “I’m listening.”

Ichiro pursed his lips.

Ichiro: “During high school, I was constantly rejected by girls who only pursued the most popular and attractive guys. This made me ponder: how appealing would those same girls be if they were transformed into hideous monsters, driven to destroy everything in their path, yet trapped with a lingering remnant of their own awareness?”

He chuckled in a high-pitched tone. Borko gazed at him.

Borko: “You wish to seek revenge on these girls?”

Ichiro: “Not anymore. I intend to make my dreams into reality. Every girl always crushed on Jiro, but never me.”

He said bitterly. Borko raised an eyebrow.

Borko: “Do you want to wed his bride?”

Ichiro’s face twisted with disgust.

Ichiro: “NO! I would rather die alone than ever wed Noriko!”

He waved his hand.

He cleared his throat.

Ichiro: “Regardless, the virus I created is ready, though it is currently in its initial phase.”

He folded his hands and grinned.

Ichiro: “My grandmother will be the first test subject. I will place it in her tea on the day of Jiro’s and Noriko’s wedding.”

He smiled.

Borko: “I see. Have you chosen a name for this groundbreaking creation?”

Ichiro: “Richioprox Erokine.”

~

Ichiro, clad in his red silk pajamas, lay slumped in bed. He found himself wondering about the identity of the fat man and his reasons for wanting to prevent Blair from being turned into a richonoid. Ultimately, he thought, it didn’t matter.

Rising from the bed, he opened the door to his Celeste room. A neat row of glass baby bottles sat on a shelf, each one decorated with a chibi Celeste head, smiling like a cat. He picked up one bottle and smiled widely. Soon these will be filled with her breast milk for me to drink from, he thought.

A manila file labeled “Subject: XX-0364” sat on his desk. Peeking from the folder was a photograph of a baby girl with lime-green hair, her neon tufts forming a crown against the plush pillow behind her. Swaddled tightly like a precious little bundle in a cloth patterned with purple cats, she had warm brown skin glowing with a rosy flush on her round cheeks, and her large violet eyes stared up with a serene, knowing calmness.

~

Minerva walked out of her condo in the Megalos Tower, a sheer silk robe draped over her shoulders to reveal her blue negligee, while Desiree followed closely behind. Upon opening the doors to her office, she discovered Alfie tied to a chair with duct tape covering his mouth.

Narcisse was seated in her office chair, casually leafing through her files. Desiree lunged forward, using her metalokinesis to hurl a filing cabinet directly at him. Without even looking up from the file, Narcisse nonchalantly raised his hand and conjured a purple bubble around himself; the cabinet dented upon impact and crashed heavily to the floor. Desiree’s jaw dropped.

Narcisse: “He is not harmed. I gagged him to shut him up. He wouldn’t stop talking about you, and you, my dear, are terribly boring.”

He chuckled. Desiree looked away to hide her smirk. Minerva’s face contorted with rage.

Minerva: “How dare you?!”

Narcisse waved her notes and rose.

Narcisse: “But your notes on Jiro Tachibana are another story.”

He grinned tightly.

Narcisse: “I’ll be using your research to my advantage.”

He said loftily.

Minerva: “You are NOT taking Jiro from me!”

Narcisse threw his head back and laughed.

Narcisse: “My, Grandma, what big ears you have.”

He taunted her. Minerva’s bared her teeth.

Narcisse: “I’m merely borrowing him for my own agenda. Once I am done, I will release him into your senior citizen’s home.”

Minerva stepped forward, and Narcisse put a bubble over himself.

Minerva: “I am not mistaken, Narcisse Beaumont, you’re older than me!”

She snapped.

Narcisse dusted himself off and wagged his head.

Narcisse: “You are correct, but I am not going to age. You know that. You study us.”

He smiled tightly.

Narcisse: “I will send my nephew a recording of your glorified gopher’s ramblings to help him sleep. Adieu.”

He pressed a button in his ear device and teleported away.

Minerva clenched her fist tightly.

Minerva: “...How did he get that device?”

Muffled sounds came from Alfie as he tried to speak past the gag.

Minerva: “Shut up, Alfie.”

She huffed and folded her arms under her bosom.

~

Dougal was secured to a gurney in a full-body cast, rotating slowly against the wall he was strapped to. Narcisse watched him and clicked his tongue.

Narcisse: “Well, about the only use I got from you, aside from spooking my naughty little nephew, is the devices given to heads of New Horizons Research’s divisions. While I am curious how a fat, useless manchild like you got his grubby fingers on them, it ultimately doesn’t matter, does it?”

He drummed his fingers on the desk as he watched Dougal’s coal-black eyes gaze at him as he slowly spun around.

Narcisse: “You are no longer of any use. All you did was waste my time and energy on performing mundane tasks that your tiny brain in that bean head cannot comprehend, like heating canned pasta in a microwave.”

He growled with irritation.

He then inhaled sharply.

Narcisse: “But I don’t want to depart with no gift to give you, so I got you something.”

He pulled a drinking bird toy from his coat and set it on the table. He went to the sink to fill a glass with water, and placed it precisely on the desk directly in front of the toy. With a flourish of his gloved fingers, he positioned the red-hatted bird so that its beak hovered just above the surface of the water. He gave the toy a gentle, deliberate tap, setting it into its rhythmic, mechanical dip.

The bird’s beak met the water with a tiny, wet clink each time, the red felt soaking up a drop before the toy swung upright again. Narcisse stood back, admiring the monotony of the motion, his eyes glinting with a cruel, amused satisfaction.

Narcisse: “There.”

He purred, leaning closer to the gurney until he was inches from Dougal’s immobilized face.

Narcisse: “A pastime for the immobile. Watch it closely, Dougal. It’s consistent, predictable, and utterly devoid of ambition—much like yourself.”

He checked his pocket watch, the toy’s clicking providing a maddeningly steady metronome against the silence of the room.

Narcisse: “Try not to blink.”

He added, his voice dropping to a silken whisper.

Narcisse: “I’d hate for you to miss the moment it stops.”

He grinned.

He stepped back into the doorframe.

Narcisse: “Enjoy your pathetic life, you beached whale. What’s left of it anyway.”

He pressed the button on the device in his ear and teleported away.

Dougal’s eyes widened, his muffled screams caught behind the thick, suffocating bandages as he watched the rhythmic, hypnotic dip of the toy. The mechanical bird swung forward, its beak poised to touch the water for the final time.

As the felt tip broke the surface tension of the water with a soft, wet tap, the circuit completed.

The air in the room didn’t just grow hot; it vanished in a microsecond of impossible pressure. A blinding, searing white light, violent and all-consuming, tore through the space, instantly obliterating the sterile walls, shredding the medical equipment into twisted shrapnel, and vaporizing the very silence. The floor buckled with a thunderous groan, and the world disintegrated into a catastrophic roar of superheated fire and pulverizing concrete, a total, obliterating inferno that left absolutely nothing behind but the lingering, hollow echo of a final, metallic clink.

Narcisse watched the explosion of the private clinic from a distance and smiled.

Narcisse: “Au revoir, Monsieur Springer.”