Into the Apocalypse: Saving My Favorite Villain-Chapter 91: Matthew’s Story II
Rosalia — POV
He never deserved a loving family—because, to them, he was nothing more than a stray they had picked up on a whim.
A nameless thing.
A burden they had tolerated out of convenience or false virtue.
They were not his real family.
In that brief, cruel moment—when the truth finally tore through him like a blade—Matthew regretted everything.
He regretted it so deeply it felt as though his chest might split open under the weight of it.
He regretted wasting years of his life trying to earn the affection of people who were not related to him in any way.
People who had never truly seen him, never truly cared, never once treated him with warmth unless it benefited them.
He had endured their coldness.
Their indifference.
Their quiet cruelty disguised as obligation.
If only—if only they had treated him better after taking him in, even just a little—perhaps his heart would not have rotted into such overwhelming regret and hatred.
But they hadn’t.
And so, in that final stretch of his life, one desire after another clawed its way to the surface of his fading consciousness.
He wanted revenge.
Not the shallow kind born of anger—but the desperate kind born from injustice, from a lifetime of being crushed beneath other people’s feet.
He wanted salvation.
He wanted to search for his real parents—his true family.
He wanted to know whether his real family would love him.
Whether they would accept him for who he was, without conditions, without cruelty, without turning him into something disposable.
He wanted to see their faces.
He wanted to hear them call his name.
But the world was merciless.
Cruel beyond forgiveness.
His injuries were fatal.
His body was already failing him, blood soaking into the ground beneath him as his strength slipped away.
He barely managed two shallow breaths after learning the truth—two fragile, trembling breaths—before everything went dark.
Before his life faded forever.
Before his soul slipped free, soaring into an endless, indifferent sky.
Even now... I think about that Chapter.
Even today, after all this time, I remember my tears as if they were carved into my skin.
My happiness, when reading that part of the novel, had been twisted tightly with grief over his death—so tangled that I could no longer tell where one ended and the other began.
Matthew... was not like me.
And yet, he was.
I was relieved—strangely, painfully relieved—to learn that those scum were not his real family.
Their hatred, their neglect, their cruelty... it all finally made sense.
Unlike me.
Unlike me, who had been rejected by her own blood.
The woman who gave birth to me had hated me from the beginning.
There had been no misunderstanding, no hidden truth waiting to be revealed—only rejection, plain and merciless.
Matthew still had hope.
Hope I never had.
If he had met his real family, perhaps he could have become happy.
Perhaps he could have finally known warmth instead of cold indifference.
Perhaps he could have been loved—not as a burden, not as a replacement, not as something unwanted—but simply as a son.
But he died before he could.
He died and vanished from the world, taking all his pain, sorrow, and injustice with him—like smoke scattered by the wind.
He died after a lifetime of suffering.
He died without ever knowing what his real family looked like.
Later in the story, after Cassel witnessed the family’s conversation, he interrogated them.
And then he killed them.
Not quickly. Not mercifully.
He killed them in a way far worse than Matthew’s death—cold, calculated, and absolute.
A punishment they never saw coming.
Cassel also investigated Matthew’s real family.
He found them.
He told them the entire truth.
Of course, Matthew’s real family mourned him.
They cried.
They screamed his name.
They collapsed under the weight of grief when they learned what had happened to the son they had lost without ever knowing.
But what was the point?
What use is love that comes too late?
What value does affection hold after death?
What is the value of justice if the victim never lives to see it?
What is the value of a happy ending if the one who suffered never gets to live it?
I hated that ending.
I hated it so much it made my chest ache.
I always felt sorrow for Matthew—an ache that never fully faded, even when the novel moved on.
Because, in my mind, I always imagined us standing before a mirror.
A single mirror, cracked down the middle.
On opposite sides stood two reflections.
Different faces.
Different genders.
Different worlds.
But the same story.
For Matthew—who suffered the same pain I did—I felt an overwhelming closeness.
A connection I couldn’t explain.
Eventually, though, I forgot him.
The novel was long, filled with countless characters, endless battles, betrayals, and twists.
I became absorbed in my favorite character—my beloved villain.
My attention shifted, my heart followed another path.
And Matthew faded into the background.
Yet even now...
I still want to see him happy.
I want to see him reunited with his real family.
I want to see him take revenge with his own hands.
I want to see him live—free, peaceful, surrounded by warmth instead of hatred.
"Ca... e..."
My voice came out hoarse and broken, heavy between my labored breaths.
It barely sounded like my own.
I stared at the figure trapped inside the twisted tree—at Matthew.
Of course... this might be someone else entirely.
Perhaps this is another tree.
Another victim.
Another tragedy unrelated to the one I remembered.
But I was willing to hope.
Willing to follow my heart instead of reason.
Because my heart screamed that I would regret it for the rest of my life if I did nothing.
When Cassel turned to look at me, our eyes met.
In that moment, I didn’t know what to say.
My tears fell uncontrollably—I didn’t even feel them leaving my eyes.
I gathered what little courage I had left and pleaded.
"S-Save him..."
My lips trembled violently as I forced the words out.
"Please, Cassel."
Perhaps Matthew’s memories—this world’s memories—had seeped into my mind, blending with my own past.
Perhaps they had stirred wounds I had never allowed to heal.
That was why I was so sensitive.
So anxious.
So unbearably sad.
I kept staring into Cassel’s dark, still eyes—deep and quiet, like a night sky with no visible stars.
He said nothing.
He asked nothing.
He only looked at me.
I didn’t know how long we stood like that.
Seconds? Minutes?
Just as despair tightened around my chest and I was about to beg him again—
A hand suddenly covered my eyes, firm but gentle.
Another arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me into a familiar, warm embrace.
I was surrounded by his scent—clean, steady, comforting in a way that made my knees weaken.
"Rosalia," he murmured, his voice low and close.
"I told you—you only need to command me if you need anything."
Something soft brushed against my trembling, damp lips—light as a feather.
Warm masculine breaths surrounded my mouth and face, caressing me gently, grounding me.
"Don’t beg me," he whispered.
"All you need to do is point with your finger... and I will do whatever you want."
His breath pierced my ears, my soul, my skin.
His face brushed against mine, kissing every inch with quiet reverence, before the large, calloused hand finally moved away from my eyes.
Before I could even open them, I felt Cassel’s lips softly kiss my eyelids—one after the other.
"I’ll do anything," he said quietly.
"Everything—for you. Just... don’t cry."
His words were gentle.
His actions were gentle.
Too gentle.
Gentle enough to make my tears fall all over again.
Because I didn’t deserve such kindness.
Because I had never known this kind of kindness before.
Because I didn’t know how to exist within it—without breaking apart.
