Never Held a Grudge
I'd never harbored any twisted emotions.
'Huh?'
I'd fallen into a deep sleep, lulled by encroaching drowsiness and Mist's body heat, only to tilt my head at the sudden change in my surroundings.
A dank prison reeking of mold.
A place all too familiar to me.
'Hah...'
Of course it was.
This was the prison where, in my past life, I'd returned every day after torture and interrogation.
The agents in my unit rarely knew each other's identities, even among fellow operatives. I was no exception, and the few others I occasionally met for contact exchanges were in the same boat.
That's why I'd let my guard down for a moment.
When I infiltrated that country on the brink of civil war due to ideological clashes.
I never imagined I'd be betrayed and captured by another agent from my own nation who'd entered via a different route.
'Ah, it still pisses me off thinking about it.'
I had no idea why that bastard sold me out.
Maybe some deal, or perhaps blackmail. Who knows.
But why dwell on that crap when I was the victim?
Just get clean revenge, that's all.
'Hah...'
The problem? Even after succeeding in my revenge, the truth died with him.
The encirclement closed in from all sides, and the guy couldn't hold out—he offed himself right away.
Recalling that unsatisfying revenge once more, I quietly gazed at my past-life self collapsed in this lucid dream.
[Ugh...]
Back then, after endless torture, I was so drained I could barely speak.
'Ah, this moment.'
Gauging the date roughly scratched into the wall with blood, I grimaced, knowing full well what came next.
My vision began to shift.
Soon, the scene changed to the interrogator's face as he stared at me bleeding from the torture.
[Your homeland has abandoned you too. Still keeping your mouth shut?]
Abandoned by my homeland...
Truth be told, I'd steeled myself for that from the moment I became an agent.
No one knew better than me that my actions broke the law.
So when I got word—in a foreign country, no less, amid torture and interrogation—that my homeland had cut me loose, I just shrugged it off.
But then.
[Look. See how your family is being treated.]
A bundle of papers thrust at me as I lay slumped, exhausted from the brutal questioning.
Those papers detailed an organized effort to erase my family.
My parents, thinking their son had just landed a job abroad, reported me missing to the police the moment they realized something was wrong.
But the cops brushed them off, not even launching a proper investigation.
Frustrated by the lukewarm response, my father desperately leveraged his connections, pleading on the internet and TV for someone to look into my case.
Things only worsened.
Stirred by propaganda and rumors, online opinion was manipulated to paint me as trash—and my parents, who'd raised such filth, as fair game too. It was all laid bare.
[...]
[See? Your homeland isn't just abandoning you—they're trying to wipe out your parents too.]
There was no proof any of it was true.
No matter how battered my mind was from the torment, I wasn't weak enough to fall for such crude divide-and-conquer tactics.
[Stubborn bastard...]
When I stayed silent, the man spat that and left the cell.
But he didn't give up.
From the next day, the pattern emerged: after torture left me collapsed, he'd shove more info about my parents at me.
What I learned was horrifying.
Father forced into retirement under company pressure.
Mother's restaurant on the verge of ruin from sly info manipulation.
Still, I didn't buy it.
Not because I trusted my homeland, but because trusting my torturers seemed even stupider. Objectively, the intel had glaring holes. Why leave an agent's parents hanging like this? If the agent defected and spilled secrets, they'd be the ones in trouble. Common sense told me not to believe them.
Time dragged on.
One year passed.
My arms and legs' tendons severed long ago. Treatment delayed too long; by my knowledge, I'd never walk again.
They shoved info about my parents facing real financial hardship.
Three years.
Torture felt routine now—had my pain threshold risen? Or had my brain gone haywire from too much agony?
Parents scrambling to find me, enduring online abuse, now in therapy. Shoved at me.
Four years.
One change: deeming me unable to stand with severed tendons, they removed the handcuffs.
Parents cut from state aid, deeper poverty. Shoved at me.
Five years.
Oddly, no interrogation or torture that day.
Word came: the country torturing me had collapsed.
It was always rife with civil war from ideological strife—why I'd infiltrated for intel in the first place.
Trapped in the ruins of that fallen nation, I miraculously survived and escaped the prison.
[Hah...]
First thing after: verify if the info on my parents was real.
[Haha...]
Begging and luck got me enough for a flight home after two years.
But I didn't head straight back. My homeland had abandoned me—why rush?
I moved to a nearby small country, used their computers to dig.
[Hahaha!]
The truth that emerged tore my chest apart.
All real.
The homeland's moves to erase my parents matched exactly.
The one scrap of info I bought with every last coin?
[Deceased.]
Everything disgusted me.
Especially that I'd become an agent, sparking it all. That fact turned into a blade savagely ripping me open.
'No matter how many times I see it, it's just unpleasant.'
Watching my despairing past self from a step back, I could only mutter that.
It was all over long ago. Personal revenge taken, homeland properly screwed—emotions faded ages back.
Still, reliving it stirred unease I couldn't shake.
'What?'
Mist blankly watched Abel, deep in sleep as she tended to him.
His steady breathing, peaceful form—yet his hand suddenly moved to his forehead on its own?
"???"
Mist plunged into confusion.
Her eyes and mind registered it, but her heart refused to accept.
"Mm..."
The confusion peaked, then eased—Abel's hand gripped hers tightly, brow furrowed as if uncomfortable. His warmth cut through it.
Steady breaths, relaxed body: definitely asleep.
Yet clinging like this signaled something wrong.
Seeing him like that, she shoved aside trivial thoughts.
"...Is something the matter?"
A mere whisper.
Smoothly, Mist stroked his hair with careful tenderness.
A touch bolder than before.
"Mm..."
Her doing? He seemed far more at ease.
Not the master she craved.
Born and raised in a clan where serving another was life's ambition.
The catch? Her ideal lord's bar was impossibly high.
Laid-back yet poised, pressuring when needed, decisive as required.
That's why she'd entered the Nebula Ducal Residence eyeing such a master.
King of the underworld.
One of the empire's four great ducal houses—she figured her ideal awaited.
Reality disappointed.
The duke she deemed worthy lay poisoned by unknown toxin, health crumbling before she arrived.
His direct heirs? Lacking, in her eyes.
Then she met Abel.
His actions, personality, demeanor, guts, capacity, strength—all perfect.
No—calling it "to her liking" disrespected her lord.
Yes, she'd found the master worthy of her lifelong loyalty.
One to whom she'd offer body, heart, soul.
Her master, so vulnerable now.
'Mm, this.'
Her first feeling toward him: pure fealty.
Having despaired of ever finding one, meeting him let emotions slip a bit.
She chalked it to loyalty.
'Quite.'
Of course, she hadn't expected a prime young man!
Or his teasing flirtations!
He matched her tastes perfectly—who wouldn't think it sometimes?
Yet her iron will suppressed all desire, serving with devotion alone.
'It's good...'
She truly believed it.
Smoothly—though her fingers now grazed his nape and collarbone.
[Long time no see, Sebastian.]
"Hm? Ah, truly, greetings, Lady Belias."
As Sebastian bowed overly formal, Belias waved him off sharply.
[Ah, enough. No need for excessive courtesy.]
"Understood."
Overkill courtesy could border rudeness.
Knowing this—and her temperament best—Sebastian straightened, slowly brewing her favorite black tea with practiced ease.
"So."
Preparing it fluidly, he eyed her seated form and ventured carefully.
"How goes the investigation into those unknowns who poisoned the duke?"