Until The Last Day

The silence following her scream felt even worse than the chains.

Vincent’s claws dripped with blood, and his chest heaved like a wild animal in a cage. His golden eyes pierced through the darkness, desperately searching for any sign of Camela.

But there was nothing—just silence and the haunting echo of her screams.

He let out a fierce roar that tore through his throat. “CAME—LA!”

The sound shattered the void, cracking it like fragile glass. Dust fell from the dark ceiling, and the ground trembled beneath him.

Then he heard her voice again, it sounded weak and distant—a whisper carried by chains. “Vincent…”

He turned around, his claws raised high and ready to strike as he roared, “Camela!”

Her silhouette appeared dimly in the dark ahead. She was on her knees, bound by iron coils that wrapped her wrists, ankles, and throat. The scar on her chest glowed white against her skin.

With trembling lips, she whispered, “Don’t look at me.”

Vincent halted in shock. “What?” he questioned, stunned.

She turned her face away, her voice breaking with emotion as she spoke. “Don’t see me like this. Don’t…don’t let him show you what I really am.”

The ghost’s voice drifted through the darkness, smooth yet cruel. “Hide the truth, little bride. That’s all you’ve ever done. It’s why he loves you, isn’t it? Because you've never shown him your true self.”

Camela shook her head and spoke fiercely as her chains clinked together. “Stop! Don’t listen!”

Vincent's claws dug into his palms painfully. “What truth? Please tell me!” he asked.

Her eyes brimmed with tears as she shook even more violently, desperation in her voice. “No…If I tell you, you'll leave me. You'll hate me.”

The ghost chuckled softly. “But if you stay silent, he’ll never trust you. What a cruel little knot that is. To speak means facing hatred, while to remain silent leads to doubt. Which will you choose, bride?”

The chains lifted her off the ground, leaving her trembling body dangling as her scar glowed bright red now instead of white.

“Vincent,” she whispered, her lips quivering. “Please. Don’t ask me…don’t make me say it.”

Vincent’s voice was raw with emotion. “I could never hate you. Just tell me what it is…whatever it may be, I can handle it.”

The ghost laughed. “Can you really, fox? You who hide behind your claws and teeth? You who swore you would protect her while carving lies into her skin?”

Camela sobbed, “Don’t listen! Don’t believe him!”

Vincent growled and stepped forward. “Then say it yourself! Tell me what he’s trying to use against you. Let’s end this game.”

But Camela turned her head away; her silence hurt more than any scream could.

The ground cracked open again, and from the crack rose the black journal with its pages flapping in an invisible breeze, glowing faintly red.

The ghost's whisper enveloped them. “Every page is written except for the last one. Do you know why that is, fox? Because the last page holds her truth…the truth she has never spoken. If she writes it down, she’ll be free. But if she keeps it hidden, she belongs to me.”

The journal floated toward Camela as one chain unwrapped from her wrist and pressed a quill into her hand.

“Write it,” the ghost commanded. “Tell him…tell the fox what you’ve never told your father, your city, or even yourself.”

Camela's tears flowed down her face as she pleaded. “No…please…not like this.”

Vincent lunged forward with a roar, but the chains snapped out, slamming him back against the wall. His body cracked the stone, blood dripping from his mouth.

He growled, forcing himself to stand tall. His voice echoed in the chamber. “Camela! Don’t give him what he wants!”

The ghost whispered in his ear. “But she already has.”

Camela’s hand trembled over the page, and the quill hovered and dripped ink like blood.

Her voice was barely audible. “Vincent…I…”

The ghost leaned closer with a smile. “Say it. Write it down. Let him see who you truly are.”

Camela’s breath hitched as she spoke. “The night I met you…”

Vincent’s heart slammed against his ribs. “What about it?” he asked.

Tears fell from her eyes onto the page, staining it red as she continued. “I wasn’t supposed to survive past that night. I wasn’t meant to…belong to you. He gave me away because I was already…”

She paused for a moment, choking on her sobs.

Vincent bared his fangs in frustration. “Already what?!” he screamed.

Her hands shook so violently that the quill broke in half, spilling ink across the page and turning it red.

The ghost hissed in rage. “No! You don’t get to hide it again!”

The chains tightened around her throat, lifting her higher as she clawed at them, gasping for breath.

The ghost's voice thundered ominously. “If she won’t speak…she dies.”

Vincent’s gold eyes flared with fury as his claws slashed through the air, roaring, “NO!”

He lunged forward, ripping through chain after chain, his body bleeding with each strike. For every link he broke, another grew, but he pressed on relentlessly.

His voice thundered in the darkness. “I don’t care what she hides! I don’t care what truth she won't tell me! SHE IS MINE!”

The void shook. The journal slammed shut, letting out a scream like a beast.

Camela dropped from the air and landed directly into Vincent’s arms.

Her body quaked uncontrollably as she whispered against his chest, her voice trembling. “You shouldn’t say that. You have no idea what I’ve done.”

Vincent tightened his grip around her and responded, “Then don’t tell me. I don’t need to know. I don't need the truth; all I need is you.”

For the first time, her sob broke into a small, fragile laugh.

The ghost's hissing filled the space around them. “Foolish fox. You can’t build love on silence.”

Vincent’s gaze shot toward the darkness as his voice ignited with intensity. “Then I’ll build it on chains and scars…on everything you can't take away from me.”

The void shattered into countless shards of glass.

When Vincent blinked, the chamber was gone. He found himself in Camela’s old bedroom—the bed, the mirror, and the cracked walls surrounding him.

Camela gasped in terror. “No! Not here! Not again!” she wailed.

The ghost's voice slithered through the air around them. “This is where it all started, bride…the bed where you lay alone, waiting for someone to claim you, and the mirror where your father carved his fears. You hide the truth because deep down you know…this room still belongs to you.”

The bed sheets rustled as a shadow began to rise from them. It was Vincent—or something that looked like him. His golden eyes sparkled, but his smile felt off. His claws dripped black instead of red.

The shadowy version of Vincent reached out, his voice smooth yet poisonous. “Camela. Come back to bed. You know you need me.”

Camela’s whole body froze still, her body tense as her hand shook against Vincent's chest and her breath caught in her throat.

“No…no…not you…” she whispered.

Vincent stepped protectively in front of her, growling, “Stay away from her.”

The shadow-Vincent grinned mockingly. “Or what? She chose me once before; she can do it again.”

Camela cried out, clinging to Vincent’s arm tightly. “Don’t listen to him! He’s lying!”

The shadow-Vincent tilted its head, its grin sharp and sinister. “Then prove it. Bride…speak your truth to him. If you don’t, he’ll never know which one of us is real.”

Camela's legs wobbled as her voice cracked. “Vincent…I can’t…”

The ghost’s laughter echoed loudly around them. “Hide the truth, and you hide yourself. How long will he hold onto a bride who doesn’t even belong to him?”

Vincent pulled her behind him, shielding her with his body as he raised his claws defensively.

His voice rumbled like thunder. “She belongs to me because I chose her…that’s all the truth I need.”

The shadow-Vincent widened its grin in response. “Then step closer, fox. Let’s see if she reaches for you…or for me.”

The two versions of Vincent stood face-to-face, with one shining gold and the other dark black.

While Camela stood trembling between them, her scar glowing red as she hesitated with her hand lifted.

She reached forward—hesitating.

The ghost’s voice came in a whisper, slicing through the air like a blade:

“Now, bride. Show us what you’re really hiding.”

And then everything came to a quiet stop.