𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐎ⱽᴵᴺᶜᴱᴺᶻᴼ

𝖙𝖜𝖊𝖓𝖙𝖞 𝖓𝖎𝖓𝖊

Before we start, a big shoutout to pranjalKamlait for making me smile with your comments! 💬💖 Your words really brightened my day and gave me the push I needed to keep writing. Thank you for the support—it means more than you know! 😊✨

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Vittorio stood in the vast, silent wasteland that Destiny had cast him into—an endless stretch of grey earth and sky, untouched by time or life. The haunting echo of Han-seok's betrayal still burned behind his eyes, but his sobs had long turned to silence. His voice, when he finally spoke, was calm. Too calm.  

"I'm ready," he told Destiny, not with the fire of vengeance or the hope of healing, but with something colder. Final. "Send me back."  

The moment he reappeared in the theatre, the shift in atmosphere was palpable. The glowing light that usually accompanied his entrances was dimmer, less vibrant. His footsteps were slow but deliberate, almost soundless as he stepped into the centre of the room. Gone was the Vittorio who had once laughed too loudly, who taunted and teased even in the most morbid of scenes. Gone was the spark in his eyes, the sharp edge of humor that danced on his tongue. In its place was a silence that felt heavier than any scream. His face was unreadable, carved in stillness like a marble statue. His presence no longer demanded attention—it commanded it. 

Vincenzo stood up first, his breath caught in his throat. He watched his younger brother carefully, uncertain. This wasn't the same man who had collapsed in front of him minutes ago, shattering under the weight of heartbreak. This version of Vittorio looked... hollow. "Vittorio?" he called gently, almost as if addressing a ghost.  

Cha-young's lips parted, her usual spark of wit frozen in her throat. Even she, who had matched Vittorio quip for quip in the past, found no words. There was nothing to joke about here. 

Han-seo remained seated, shoulders tense. He understood this kind of silence. He had worn it himself, once—back when every day was survival under the weight of cruelty. His chest ached as he watched Vittorio return with the same empty gaze he had seen in the mirror years ago. There was no thrill in watching this moment. Only dread. 

The tenants, who had once found entertainment in Vittorio's flamboyant commentary, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. They knew enough now to understand that this wasn't an act. 

And Han-seok... he flinched. For the first time since the theatre had begun showing these scenes, he looked genuinely afraid. Vittorio didn't look at him. Didn't acknowledge him. That terrified him more than any insult, any tear, any threat. The coldness in his former lover's eyes was absolute. It meant Han-seok no longer mattered. And for a man like him, that was the deepest cut of all.  

"Well," Vittorio said, "are we going to sit here like mourners at my funeral, or is Destiny going to roll the next scenes?" 

There was no smirk, no tilt of the head, none of that playful venom he used to lace his words with. Just a blunt, unbothered delivery—more unsettling than any outburst.