devil or angel

Olivia's eyelids fluttered open, her vision hazy, her body weighed down by an unforgiving chill. A sharp sting shot through her palm as she shifted, and she realized—too late—that her hand had found one of the countless shards of glass strewn across the floor from the night before. The pain barely registered. She exhaled softly and forced herself upright, each movement deliberate, sluggish.

Kira was gone.

The thought settled in her mind like a stone sinking into dark waters. With slow, calculated steps, she maneuvered around the fractured remnants of the night's chaos, reaching for a small, unassuming box tucked away in the corner of her wardrobe. From within, she retrieved a single, ornate syringe—its presence both familiar and damning. She placed it carefully on the table before turning her attention to a half-emptied bottle of whiskey. The amber liquid sloshed against the glass as she poured, her fingers steady despite the cold.

The burn of alcohol slid down her throat, bitter and punishing, but strangely, it brought her clarity. A twisted sort of vitality. She downed another glass. And another. The world dulled at the edges, her mind sharpened in a way that felt almost unnatural.

Moments later, syringe in hand, she drifted toward the bathroom.

The room was dim, the only sound the slow drip of a faucet into a basin brimming with water—water so cold it seemed to steal the very warmth from the air. Winter's breath seeped through every crack in the walls, whispering against her skin. Kira's absence had left the bath unprepared, the air unwelcoming.

And then she saw her.

Isabella.

Slumped in the corner, her silk dress saturated in crimson. Her breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. Even her tears bore the color of blood. Her entire being radiated despair, the kind that clawed at the soul and left nothing but echoes of pain.

Slowly, she lifted her head. Her lips curved into a mirthless smile, her voice a broken whisper.

"So, has the Angel of Death finally come for me?"

Olivia did not answer.

Her expression remained unreadable, her gaze detached, as though she were peering into a world unseen by anyone else. She closed the distance between them, kneeling without hesitation. Her fingers brushed against the fragile column of Isabella's throat, tracing the faint rhythm of life pulsing beneath cold skin.

Isabella did not resist. She only exhaled, as though surrendering to whatever fate Olivia had in store.

Then—pain.

A strangled cry tore from her lips, but it was weak, feeble. Her body trembled, wracked by exhaustion, yet Olivia remained unmoved, her actions precise, unwavering. She rose in one fluid motion and disappeared into the adjoining room, returning within moments with a small jar in her hands.

Without a word, she unwound the makeshift bindings on Isabella's wrists, taking them carefully in her own hands. Her touch was unexpectedly gentle as she smoothed the salve over torn flesh, each movement meticulous, deliberate. The wounds, moments ago fresh and gaping, began to fade beneath the ointment's touch, vanishing as though they had never been there at all.

Isabella watched, her mind sluggish with curiosity.

"…What did you inject me with?"

Silence.

Olivia regarded her with an inscrutable stare before turning away, disappearing into the shadows of the room. A moment later, she returned. Without hesitation, she approached the filled basin.

And then—she shed her clothes.

Isabella averted her gaze with a startled gasp, heat rising to her cheeks despite the icy air.

"What the hell are you doing?!" she shouted.

But Olivia merely stepped into the frigid water, unbothered by Isabella's outburst, her expression as unreadable as ever.

Isabella's voice rang sharp, laced with disbelief and anger.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?!"

Olivia barely acknowledged her, slipping further into the frigid water, the icy surface swallowing her slender frame, while her hand cradled a half-filled glass of wine. The dim candlelight flickered against the rim, casting rippling reflections upon the water. She tilted her head, finally deciding to grace Isabella with an answer.

"I'm taking a bath," she said simply, her tone devoid of care. "Can't you see?"

The response did nothing to quell Isabella's frustration. She narrowed her eyes, her breath shallow, still feeling the lingering effects of whatever had been injected into her veins.

"That's not what I meant," she pressed, voice sharper now. "Tell me. What the hell did you inject me with?"

Olivia took a slow sip of her wine, savoring the taste, as if weighing whether Isabella deserved an answer. Then, almost absently, she exhaled and murmured,

"…He was a good man."

Isabella's brow furrowed. "What?"

A ghost of a smirk played on Olivia's lips. She turned her head slightly, her gaze distant, lost in a memory only she could see. She swirled the wine in her glass, watching the deep red liquid trace slow, deliberate circles before she spoke again.

"Your father." Another sip. Another pause. "He was a good man. And a good father. I envy you for that."

Silence hung between them.

The words should have ignited something in Isabella—rage, disgust—but instead, they left her cold, hollow. She had learned long ago that there was always more to the story, and Olivia's words, however cruel, held a weight she couldn't ignore. So she listened.

The poison in her veins was fading now, its grip loosening. And still, she listened.

Olivia leaned back against the chilled porcelain, her voice a quiet echo in the candlelit room.

"The fifteenth cell," she murmured. "That was where your father was held. The fifteenth cell of Tharone Duchy's prison. That was his number."

A shadow crossed her face.

"I was there too."

Isabella's breath caught, but she remained still.

"I was alone when they threw me into that cell," Olivia continued. "I would have died there. But your father… he saved me. He treated me like a daughter. He gave me warmth when I had none. And every night, he would speak of you—the girl with golden-brown hair and eyes like fresh spring grass. His Isabella."

Her voice was steady, but there was something beneath it, something raw.

"He was so proud of you," Olivia said softly. "But at the same time… he was so terribly sad for you."

A single tear slipped down Isabella's cheek. Her fingers curled into fists.

"Then why?" she whispered, voice trembling. "Why did you kill him?"

A pause.

Then, Olivia turned her head, her blue eyes meeting Isabella's.

"It's true I strangled him with my own hands, but..."

The words were spoken with terrifying clarity.

The grief in Isabella's expression twisted into something else—something darker, sharper. Hatred surged through her veins like wildfire.

"You're saying it so casually," she hissed. "Like it meant nothing. Do you feel no guilt? No remorse?"

"I don't." Olivia's voice was flat. "Because it was what he asked of me."