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Darkness. Cold iron. The faint scent of damp earth.
He awoke to the sound of rattling chains, his wrists bound, his body aching. A dim torch flickered outside the bars of his cage, casting shadows across the rough stone walls. His head throbbed, and dried blood crusted his skin.
Captured.
The realization struck like a blade to the chest. He tried to move, but pain lanced through his limbs. They had fought hard to bring him down—the so-called heroes. He remembered flashes of the battle, how they overwhelmed him with their numbers, their righteous fury.
"You will answer for your crimes."
The hero's voice still echoed in his mind. A voice filled with unwavering belief, as if justice was something absolute.
He let out a bitter chuckle. Crimes? What crime was greater than theirs?
His thoughts were interrupted by movement outside the cage. Someone approached—small, hesitant footsteps against the stone floor. A girl, wrapped in a thin cloak, stopped before him. Her face was hidden in the torchlight, but he could make out her delicate frame and the faint rustling of parchment in her hands.
She didn't speak. Instead, she knelt down and slid a folded piece of paper through the bars.
Frowning, he reached out and took it. His fingers unfolded the note, revealing shaky yet careful handwriting.
"Are you in pain?"
He blinked. Of all the things he expected, kindness was not one of them.
He lifted his gaze to the girl. She stared at him, waiting. He could see now that she was young—perhaps too young to be here, too innocent to stand before someone they called a monster.
Still, he said nothing.
Another note.
"My name is—" The ink trailed off. Then, scribbled beneath it: "I can't say it."
A mute.
He studied her for a moment, searching for deception, but found none. This girl was different. Not like the others who stood outside his cage and hurled curses, not like the villagers who whispered in fear. She wasn't afraid.
Or if she was, she didn't show it.
He smirked, shaking his head. "What kind of fool writes letters to a villain?" he murmured.
She tilted her head, then scribbled another message.
"Not a villain. Just someone locked away."
His smirk faded. A strange, uneasy feeling settled in his chest. He had been called many things—monster, murderer, demon. But never this.
Not just someone.
Outside, the world continued. The villagers rejoiced, believing they had caged evil itself. The hero basked in their praises, convinced he had done the right thing.
And yet, in this cold, forgotten prison, a girl who could not speak had given him something no one else had.
A name he had long forgotten.
Not villain. Not monster.
Just someone.
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