It all happens in the blink of an eye. And yet, it seems like an eternity. Jean lurches forward, practically unopposed. Both hands on the knife, her arms at full extent. Nobody—and perhaps even me—even realizes what is happening.

The memory from then resurfaces—a child coerced into killing a man begging for his life. It’s those eyes of hers—eyes that show contempt. A sharp, desperate gaze that desires nothing less than killing. In the whites of her eyes, I do not see a pale, scar-faced Madame. Nor a Li Chou at wit’s end. In the ever-inching pupils of Jean, I see a man—Karwoski, showing distraught. Hoping that this is not how he meets his end.

I would not have enough time to react. Nobody would have enough time to react. In what feels like lasts for hours, I watch helplessly as Jean races past even Brutus. The large oaf finally processes what is happening but only manages to crane his neck in time to see the after-image of Jean charge past him. And yet, he does nothing: there is nothing he can do. There is nothing no one can do.

Closer, and closer still. The expression on Jean’s face only becomes more frenzied. Tears form in her eyes, and she grits her teeth with intensity. With full-force, she thrusts the knife forward with all their strength. At this speed and with such thrusting, all it would take is hitting any particular organ and killing me. That’s all it takes. That’s all you need to take another life.

Perhaps I deserve this. Who am I to resist after all the bloodshed that has been spilled in my name? Who am I to wonder if I deserve a happy and fulfilling life? What have I truly done for the Mafia, other than by extension sending thousands of young lives to their doom, never to return and see their loved ones? All I am capable of is creating miracles engineered by grief and sorrow. It was a foolish thing to believe I could achieve anything meaningful.

Just as I close my eyes and hope I can be reborn as a better person, I realize at a crucial moment that Jean falters. Her momentum slows down, if only marginally. There’s a wince in her eyes. Her bottom lip trembles. She roars with anger—but there’s reluctance in her scream. Her thrust becomes lackluster. Tears form in her eyes as she shuts her eyes and tries to look away.

But despite this seemingly lost steam, the knife sways partially just as Jean slams into me, knocking both of us down with heavy thuds. The unforgiving crash robs me of my senses—I can only barely make out Jean slumped over me. Her heavy but coarse panting brushing against my agitated cheeks. And it is because of this unforgivable aching pain that I remain conscious. But I lack the energy still to disarm Jean—or perhaps it’s a subconscious desire to let her deliver the killing blow. Slowly, but surely, I do regain my senses. I expect excruciating pain from a stab wound, but my expectations are subverted. The knife lays just out of my reach next to Jean—its blade still gleaming with silver. No blotches of crimson fluids circulating us.

From behind, the shock spell cast upon the others break, and they only realize that Jean has attempted to attack me. She must’ve realized this also, as she reanimates faster than I do and scrambles to pick up the knife. She pushes my feeble hand away and raises the blade above her head. “It’s because of you…” she screams tersely “it’s because of you…!” With a ringing cry, she thrusts the knife down—but miraculously I summon enough energy to cusp my hands around hers—just as the tip of the blade reaches my chest. The blade sways up and down, as the two of us struggle to control the knife.

“It’s because of you… why?” Jean asks, almost breaking into a sob “why? Why?Why?” I jerk my head in time as Jean slices through my bangs. Control over the knife continues to see-saw, as the sharpness of the knife brushes my neck.

“W-what’s gotten into you, Jean?!” I stammer after enough strength. The answer goes unheeded. Droplets of tears splash on my face, briefly causing a sting from my facial scar. “What has… brought this about?!” Sensing a reinvigoration from Jean, she yanks the knife upward—out of my grasps—and with another roaring cry slams it down. Without a second to think, I again clasp my hands over Jean’s—this time twisting her hand so that it is the flat hilt that slams onto my chest, forcing me to cough hoarsely. Jean herself lets out a pained cry and attempts to regain control of the knife.

Before I can even think about using what second-wind I may have to shove the weapon away, Jean relinquishes control of the knife momentarily. Caught off-guard and dazed, I also lessen control of the knife—but fail to react in time as Jean throws it to the side and rapidly her hands around my neck—squeezing tightly. My legs and arms thrash about, desperate for recovery. “Jung…” Jean utters through uncontrollable tears, “why… why did you let Jung die?! Answer me, Li!” She screams, her unforgivable grip making my vision phase in and out. Numbness sets in—my thrashing legs become mild.

This is how I die. This is how it should be. Even dying a hundred times over would not be enough to redeem the sins spilled in my name. Just as my body fails to function, the last gasp of air still in me escapes my lips, and my vision becomes clouded with darkness. There is a sudden lift of the heaviness previously weighing over me.

Is this what it means to die? Have I found peace at last? Have I finally—at long last—broken free of this reckless, impossible dice game with fate? There is no happy ending for pirates like us. These fading words of the legendary Wulf rings through my ears. In this mystic dimly-lit labyrinth, I reach out to grasp nothingness. Is this the fruition of my so-called happy ending?

What was it that Jean said, shortly before I entered this dream-state? Jung Lee has died? No, that’s impossible. Incomprehensible, even. He made a lousy promise to return alive—he has so much to live for. Jung has a genuine reason to fight—a genuine desire to return to his status quo. The old Wulf defied fate itself and achieved his happy ending. And yet… and yet I am led to believe he has simply died? Has yet another promise been broken?

There is a strange force jerking me. And sure enough, I can hear strange vibrations around me. But making out any of it is impossible. All this random incoherence ringing in my ears all the same but so very distinct. It would be impossible to distinguish one from the other—whatever it is I am supposed to distinguish in the first place. A small, circular force weighs on my chest—followed by intense pressing before. Then more pressing down—and then release. In between these pumps of rhythms, something soft—wet brushes against my lips.

And then suddenly, through this mystic curtain of nothingness, a figure leaps forward—a haunting figure all too familiar to a child-like Chou. That despicable expression of hatred burned into memory. Over its head, a hateful weapon of destruction is swung over—

I spring up straight, gasping rapidly at the sudden influx of air entering my body. Still lightheaded, I scramble backward, opening my eyes to blinding lights. Expecting a long, narrow, and dimly lit corridor, I sigh with heavy relief when it is still the same plain, ashen hallway of the Montepuez. The same subordinates, and the same distraught Jean, now dragged off and forced down by two of Darcy’s men. One of them must’ve picked up the knife since he holds it over Jean ready to strike. But all of them must’ve been caught off by my revival, and are thus struck by a spell. All alarmed eyes turn to me, but Jean keeps her head low, despite the one holding the knife grabbing her by the hair from behind.

Was it a mere hallucination? A near-death experience?

A mild scoff.

I was on a thread of death, and even so, despite the tragic deaths of so many captains, Fate is willing to go as far as to deny me death itself? I seem to also have a bad streak with death, don’t I, Olga?

“Li?!” Brutus is the first to react, nearly shouting in surprise. He and two others have knelt next to me, Brutus being the closet over me. It would be an understatement to say he looks incredibly concerned. But the need to shout only causes me irritation and continuous aching from my scar. With a groan, I latch onto him with one hand and heave myself up, declining one of the lackeys from assisting me. “Li… are you… are you really…” Brutus stammers, “Li, I think… you should rest,” Brutus protests.

But I ignore him, instead gently gesturing for him to give me space. The oaf obediently complies, and back-steps to join the others, as does Darcy’s lackeys. I take several strenuous exhales and inhales, eying the stiffened group in front of me, namely Jean. She remains limp in the clutches of the two holding her. The knife-holding lackey clears his throat, his eyes shifting around averting my piercing gaze.

With one last extensive exhale, I run a hand through my snaking scar and then my bangs. Then take a few wobbly steps forward. The three men restraining Jean flinch, and the men on the sides stumble back, leaving only the knife-wielding lackey left to hold Jean down.

Small, quiet footsteps. The closer I get, the more I can hear the bated breaths of Jean, regardless of the rather heavy-breathing of the knife wielder.

“M-Madame!” He hesitantly speaks up “if you wish to kill the traitor… yourself…”

“Traitor?” I quietly muse “I have led so many of our comrades to astray into the vacuum of death. And you call her a traitor?” I take a few steps forward. Jean remains quiet and doesn’t budge a muscle. The knife lackey tries to pull her hair back, but I brush my hand against his before he can, and after a few moments of caressing his hand the lackey submits, slipping the knife into my palm and releasing his grip on Jean.

“I have nearly driven the Mafia into the jaws of defeat, and yet you all have the gall to treat her so coldly?” I whisper heartily, stroking Jean’s hair. No response from the distraught woman. “If any of you knew what I attempted after departing Velksland, you would let her do as she pleased,” I twirl the hilt around so that the blade faces Jean. Without another word, I raise the bladed weapon above my head. With bated breaths, the crowd waits for me to deliver the killing blow.

But in defiance of their expectations, I lower it slowly to Jean, turning the knife so the hilt is offered to her. I then take one of Jean’s hands and gently place it in her hands. I further caress her fingers until she slowly, stubbornly, wraps her fingers around the smooth dark handle. I press harder on her grip before letting go.

“Jung…” I whisper “you mentioned that the man has died, correct?” I heartily ask Jean. The woman takes several deep breaths and doesn’t respond at first. She does, however, give a nod. After this confirmation, Jean lifts her other arm and plants a hand on my stomach. “Then do what you must, Jean,” I softly state, “if it brings closure to this vengeance, then so be it.” With a raise of the knife, she extends her arm backward in preparation for a thrust, much to the uneasy murmurs of the crowd before us. Brutus and Beatrice in particular step forward, but one sharp glance from me is enough to make them freeze and rescind.

Slowly, agonizingly, Jean extends her knife towards me—but partway, the knife slips through her grip and clatters loudly on the floor. Finally, Jean looks up at me with grim sadness in her eyes, her bottom lip quivers. She mutters under her breath before her gaze falls back to the floor.

In the end, Jean can’t bring herself to do it.

I take a step back and face the other way. Jean softly sobs again amid the murmurs of the others.

Jean has suffered for so long. And yet, when presented the chance—when allowed to deliver what she felt is right. She has faltered. Perhaps she realized that revenge killing wouldn’t accomplish a thing. She has nothing less to lose—she has lost her will to live given her dependence on Jung.

I killed Jung Lee. I killed the only thing that potentially mattered in her life. The only cosmic star that shone brightly in this sea of darkness. Because of my sheer incompetence at Lübeck and Valspon—hundreds, like Jung and Jean, have suffered for my irrational decision-making. Many ifs and buts could be had, but now none of it matters.

It’s despicable. We’re both despicable women. If it was Simon that died, would I have acted the same way? Olga…

If Olga were to die… whom would I blame? Whom would I lash out at?

Unable to bottle my emotions anymore, I reel around to an unsuspecting crew and take a step forward—right arm fully extended—and with all my force deliver a profound smack across Jean’s face.

The woman collapses amid surprised gasps. With a deep and intensive exhale, I turn my attention to the crowd. Jargon, in particular, attempts to rush to Jean’s side but the others stop him. “Jung Lee has died!” I retort loudly, extending both of my arms out. “The legendary Wulf der Ruthenia has met his end! And even so!” I clear my throat before continuing, “and even so—this is how we honor his memory? His sacrifice?! He has perished so that the rest may live.

“And the survivors, unable to take his death for granted, turn on each other like wild, bashful animals?!” I grit my teeth, eyeing each and every member present before me “ask yourselves this: is this what Jung would have wanted?! To have us murder each other in the hopes that he will rise from the dead?!” With my energy, I kick the knife away as it smashes against the corridor wall “if Jung… If Jung Lee could see us now—would he merely weep, believing his sacrifice would be vain?! Weep that even though our fight ends—we continue a cycle of nonsense vengeful fighting?!” I shout despite the straining of my throat. A single, hot tear spills down my disfigured cheek. “Is this what any of our loved ones would want?” I choke, trying to stiffen my lip “would they want us to evoke even more pain and suffering than what we have already endured?!”

The crowd remains quiet: all pained eyes averted. Jargon, in particular, rushes over to cradle Jean in his arms. She recuperates and embraces him while sobbing uncontrollably.

Next to us—a gust of abrupt air as the door to the command center opens. The overbearing physique of Zhui stands in the door: the lit cigar droops between his lips. Zhui must’ve been listening in—or at least happened to overhear the commotion going on outside. I—as well as Jean and Jargon, remain frozen in place as the man strolls past us to the windows.

A loud puff of the fumes brings about slight agitation from my defacement. After some time, Zhui breaks the spell brought about by his imposing presence. “The Wulf…”Zhui utters somberly, “Lee is dead… huh?” He loudly clears his throat—once, twice, and then thrice, “how… unfortunate…” Zhui expresses rather genuinely, “how… truly,remarkably, unfortunate,” Zhui takes an extensive puff from the cigar before strongly exhaling, “perhaps… I went too far,” the Don states apologetically, “Perhaps, just perhaps…” he trails off after clearing his throat. Zhui says no further, and from the sounds of things leaves the corridor through the other way.

I sigh exhaustively after it’s evident Zhui has left. Then walk past the two still on the floor and past the crowd, who are quick to snap out of their daze and cut a line for me to pass through. I stop in front of Beatrice, who shoots me a glare but says nothing. “Make sure nobody lays a finger on Jean or Jargon,” I sternly order the unkempt beauty. Beatrice acknowledges with a slight nod before averting her gaze. With nothing more to say, and without looking back I make my leave. Brutus proceeds in accompanying me, having no issue in keeping pace.

“Madame… where are you going?” He inquires “you should rest. It’s not right for you to…” I cut him off with the cast of a scoff, never once glancing over at him.

“Olga…” I mutter sadly “I will not rest this fragile body until I am certain of Olga’s fate—until I see with my own two eyes that she is fine and well!”