CHAPTER 21:- EMBERS OF THE PAST

The hall was eerily silent, abandoned except for shattered glass, overturned tables, and the bodies of those who hadn't escaped in time. Flickering lights cast long shadows over the destruction, making the scene feel even more unsettling. The noble's corpse remained where it had fallen, a gruesome reminder of the horror that had unfolded.

Amidst the wreckage, Celine lay unconscious, a victim of the chaos. Left behind in the panic, she stirred as grogginess clung to her mind, the world around her spinning as she slowly regained awareness.

A faint groan escaped her lips as consciousness returned, the room tilted as she forced her heavy eyelids open.

"Oh…"

The sound was weak, barely more than a whisper, as dizziness overtook her senses. A dull ache throbbed at the back of her skull, and when she raised a trembling hand to touch it, her fingers came away slick with something warm. Blood.

Her breath hitched. She tried to push herself up, but her limbs refused to obey. She was too weak. Too helpless.

"Help," she croaked, her voice hoarse and dry. "Is anyone there? Please… help me."

A sound.

Footsteps.

Hope flared in her chest, only to be snuffed out in the next instant.

The first thing she saw were red eyes, glowing faintly in the dim light. Her breath caught in her throat, fear spiking through her veins. The beast. It had come back. It was going to finish what it started.

But then… she saw him.

Not the monstrous thing that had torn through the party.

Dio.

He stood there, his figure looming over her—his white hair slightly tousled, his red eyes as cold and unfeeling as the void. Dressed in black from head to toe, a black leather jacket, black boots, and in his hand… a black katana, its polished blade gleaming faintly under the broken chandelier light.

Something about him was different.

Something about him was wrong.

The way he carried himself. The way he stared at her, unmoving, unspeaking.

It sent a shiver crawling down her spine.

"Dio," she gasped. "I… I need help. G-get help. I can't walk."

Silence.

Dio didn't move.

He just stood there, staring down at her with those unreadable, merciless eyes.

Anger flared in her chest. Why was he just standing there?!

"Are you deaf?" she snapped. "I said, GO GET HELP!"

Dio tilted his head slightly, then slowly crouched down until he was at her level. His red eyes bore into hers, and his next words were spoken in a calm, almost mocking tone.

"Dear mother," he whispered, "seems you truly don't understand the situation you're in."

She swallowed. Something was wrong.

"No one is coming to save you," Dio continued, his voice as cold as his stare. "Not now. Not ever."

A chill of pure, unfiltered terror spread through her body. The realization crashed down on her all at once.

Dio wasn't here to help her.

Dio wasn't here to save her.

Dio was here to kill her.

Her breath hitched. She tried to move, tried to crawl away, but her body refused to listen.

"Y-you… you wouldn't," she whispered, barely able to get the words out.

Dio merely smiled.

A small, empty smile.

And then—

The blade moved.

Celine woke with a start, her pulse hammering in her ears. The first thing she noticed was the smell—sharp, suffocating gasoline. She wrinkled her nose, instinctively turning away. Then, she saw him.

In the dim corner of the room, a pair of crimson eyes watched her, unreadable and unyielding. Dio stepped forward, emerging from the shadows, his face as blank as ever. In his left hand, he held a match. In his right, a katana gleamed under the faint flickering light.

Celine's breath hitched. She thrashed against her restraints, terror spilling from her lips. "I knew you were a monster the moment I gave birth to you! You should have never been born! Let me go! Let me go!"

Dio said nothing. He crouched beside her, pressing a rag over her mouth, muffling her screams. "Shh," he murmured. "Don't interrupt."

Then, he sat down. For a moment, he simply existed, head bowed, shoulders slack. And for the first time in years, his eyes betrayed something more than emptiness.

Sadness.

A bitter, aching sorrow.

"This is for my mother," he whispered. "The one who would have taught me how to read. The one who would have taught me how to walk, who would have played with me, told me jokes, comforted me when I was afraid…" His voice faltered, shaking.

His fingers twitched around the match.

"Mom, I feel so cold. So alone. It's too much sometimes. Everything is moving too fast. I... I..." He sucked in a breath, his expression crumbling. "I'm scared, Mom."

Silence.

Then, a plea.

"Can I have a hug before I go?"

He leaned forward, wrapping his arms around her trembling frame. For a brief, fleeting moment, peace washed over his face, like a child who had found warmth in a cruel world.

A single tear slid down his cheek. Then another.

His fingers brushed her face—one final touch. "Goodbye, Mom."

He struck the match.

The flame danced, small and fragile, before he let it fall.

The gasoline ignited in an instant.

As the fire roared to life, consuming the room, consuming her, Dio walked to the door. Celine's screams rang through the manor, twisting into something raw, something desperate. But he never looked back.

Outside, with the crackling flames behind him, Dio stood frozen.

Then, the tears came.

For the first time in nine years, Dio allowed himself to cry. He grieved not just for his mother but for the life he never had.

The child he could have been.

The warmth he never knew.

And as the fire raged on, Dio Rodriguez, the boy without emotions, felt.

Even if only for a moment.