Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death-Chapter 151: Alive

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{Outside The Projection}

The reaction in the hall was... muted.

It wasn't silent, no, sobs were heard about, murmurs and whispers, but besides that?

Nothing really.

No loud exclamations, no sharp intakes of breath, no heated conversations like before.

Many faces turned away, as if they didn't want to be seen breaking. Others just stood there, frozen, their eyes fixed on the projection as if they could burn a different ending into it.

Layla... she wasn't just crying. She was weeping.

Not the loud, ugly kind. No wails, no desperate, broken sounds.

Just the kind of tears that came from so deep in the soul that they barely made a sound at all.

Her shoulders trembled, her chest rose and fell in shuddering breaths, but her eyes—

Her eyes were locked on the past her.

On that drunken, hollowed-out woman who didn't even recognize what she had right in front of her. Who had let a ghost slip through her fingers, too blind, too broken to see it for what it was.

The regret—God, the regret.

It was unfathomable.

Endless.

A deep, bottomless pit that swallowed her whole and never let go.

Eventually, a few voices, hesitant, unsure, broke through the air.

"...He just left."

"Didn't even give her the chance to know."

Some random gave a disbelieving shake of his head.

"She was too drunk to know."

"And whose fault is that?"

Another muttered bitterly.

"He watched her. He saw her drown in it. And he did nothing."

"Tch."

A harsh exhale.

"What could he have done?"

"Something."

"He gave her coin..."

Another voice cut in, tired.

"At least a few gold worth."

"Oh, yeah, great. That really makes up for all the—"

"Shut up."

It wasn't loud. Wasn't shouted. But the weight behind it?

The sheer force behind those two words?

It cut through everything like a blade.

Layla was the one who spoke.

She didn't look at them.

Didn't acknowledge them.

Didn't wipe the tears streaking down her face, didn't hide the tremble in her hands.

She just stared.

Stared at herself.

At the woman she used to be.

At the woman she hated more than anyone else in the world.

"Shut up..."

She repeated, softer this time, but still shaking, still raw.

"You don't know what you're talking about."

A few people opened their mouths, ready to mumble an argument, but one look at her face?

They thought better of it.

Because that wasn't just regret. Wasn't just guilt.

It was worse. So much worse.

...Understanding.

It was understanding.

She knew... She knew.

She had lived in that skin, walked in those steps, drowned in that misery, and when she finally crawled out of it—when she finally woke up, sobered up, and looked around—

Her love was already gone.

And he had never looked back.

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence stretched again. Longer, heavier.

Then, finally—

"Damn fool."

No one was sure who said it first, but once it was out, it spread.

A small scoff. A muttered curse. A slow shake of the head.

"Damn fool... Both of them."

A few nods. A few sighs.

Because yeah.

They were.

Fools, the both of them.

Absolute and utter fools.

***

{Inside The Projection}

A familiar caravan rolled over the dunes, its silhouette dark against the golden glow of the setting Shams.

The sound of its carriages creaking was familiar, a rhythmic groan of old wood and sturdy wheels rolling over sand that had been traveled a thousand times before.

The same went for the soft chatter of its merchants—low murmurs, laughs, the occasional burst of loud bargaining, even though the real selling wouldn't start until the fires were up and the Twelve Moons fully showed themselves.

The last warmth of the day clung to the ground before the cold of the night came creeping in. It always did.

The desert didn't hold onto warmth the way the people did.

A breeze kicked up, stirring the fine dust and carrying with it the mingling scents of spices, leather, and sweat. A familiar blend clinging to clothes, hair, and skin.

It was the scent of the road, of long days under the Shams and longer nights by the fire.

Home... it smelled like home.

The camp was already coming to life, moving with that well-practiced ease that only came from years of doing the same thing over and over.

Merchants were setting up fires, voices rising as they argued—half-serious, half-playful—about whose cooking would be worth eating tonight.

Steeds grumbled as they were unburdened, shaking out their tired legs, their handlers muttering curses at them like scolding an old friend.

Somewhere, a lute strummed lazily, its melody soft and slow.

It wasn't a song meant to be danced to. It was the kind of tune that made one stop for a moment, close their eyes, and just breathe.

A dreamy scene it was.

A beautiful one.

"Teach! Quit staring at the sky like some tragic poet and help unload this damn thing!"

Safira's voice cut through the camp noise and Malik sighed, rolling his shoulders before stepping toward the carriage.

She was perched on top of it, foot tapping impatiently against the wooden planks like an impatient queen waiting for her throne to be carried.

"You're barking orders like you're in charge."

He scoffed and showed his arms.

"I am in charge of this delivery. Ali Baba said so."

Safira shot back, smirking as she tossed down the heavy sack of spices she was leaning on.

"Yeah, yeah—"

Malik caught it effortlessly.

"You're only in charge because I had him give you something to do."

She gasped, clutching her chest in mock offense.

"And what a noble, generous soul you are, oh great Teach."

"Damn right. Ali Baba acknowledges me as the strongest around here, so I'd say you better treat me with respect."

She giggled.

"I am though~. Teasing you a little won't hurt now, will it? And look who's talking, don't come asking for what you don't give."

"You want respect~? Safira, you once got stuck in a rug you were trying to roll up. Ain't no respect for that."

""Ahahahahahah!""

The camp erupted into laughter.

Even Ali Baba, sitting nearby, chuckled while shaking his head.

"That was years ago!"

Safira wailed.

"Are we never going to let that go?!"

"Absolutely not."

Huda, standing next to the carriage, smirked.

"It was hilarious."

Safira groaned dramatically, burying her face in her hands.

"I hate you all."

"No, you don't."

Layla, who sat by the fire, said smugly, taking a sip of tea.

"You love us. We make your miserable little life fun."

Safira only grumbled in response, tossing another sack at Malik with more force than necessary.

"And why," Malik huffed, "is she—"

He jabbed a finger at Layla.

"—just lying there while I do all the work?"

Layla didn't even open her eyes.

"Because I worked all day. And I got us a damn good deal on the silks, so you can lift a few heavy things without whining. Also, also, I'm the boss's daughter. I've got privilege."

Malik muttered something under his breath, something that sounded suspiciously like spoiled brat, but he didn't argue.

Truth be told, Layla was damn good at what she did. Watching her haggle was like watching a lion tear apart a gazelle—merciless, efficient, and, annoyingly enough, a little cute.

That last part was only him but it was all the same... right?

"Heh..."

Ali Baba let out a low chuckle from his seat by the fire, watching them all with an amused smile.

"I'll say this much—no one would believe you all were family with how much you fight."

"That's exactly why we fight."

Jasmine quipped, handing Ali Baba a steaming cup of tea before plopping down next to him.

"Family always fights... it'd be too quiet if we didn't."

Her dark eyes flickered with warmth, free of that terrible, hollow look they once had.

"That's a good excuse..."

Ali Baba mused, taking a slow sip of his tea.

He tilted his head back slightly, eyes drifting toward the endless stretch of dark above.

"A convenient one, too~... Lets you all be as loud as you want, as reckless as you please and you get to call it love."

His gaze flicked back to Jasmine, amusement twinkling behind his eyes.

"Clever."

She huffed a laugh, shaking her head.

"If it's true, then it's not an excuse."

"Mm."

Ali Baba hummed, noncommittal, but the smile on his face didn't fade.

He wasn't arguing. Maybe she was right. Maybe love really was just another kind of fight—the kind you never walked away from, the kind you never lost, no matter how many times you hit the ground.

Soon, the fire crackled brighter as lively conversations filled the space.

Somewhere, someone, had started singing, joining the lute—soft at first, then louder, the melody weaving itself into the desert night.

Above them, the Moons flickered like watching eyes, listening, bearing witness to the warmth, the life of it all.

One Thousand Nights was alive.

And so was Sinbad.