All Chapters of Until The Last Day: Chapter 11 - Chapter 20

When Camela woke up, the shadow's laughter still lingered in the air. She fluttered her eyes open, blinking against the dim glow of morning light peeking through the curtains. "Vincent?" Her voice was low, drowsy, and searching. He turned to her, tightening his arm around her waist while he retracted his claws, keeping them hidden. He pressed his forehead against her temple."I’m here," he whispered,But his gold eyes remained focused intently at the corner of the room where the shadow had been. Camela sat up and rubbed her scarred chest, looking worried as she softly said, "Why are you awake? You look like you didn't get any sleep at all." Vincent’s gaze flicked toward the corner of the room. There was nothing there now—just the gentle flutter of the curtains. "I heard something," he responded.She furrowed her brows as she questioned, "Something?" "Not just something," he corrected with a rough voice. "Someone." Camela froze in place, pulling the sheet closer to her chest. "W

The silence was shattered. Camela woke up with a gasp, her scream trapped in her throat. She gripped the sheets, which were damp with sweat. The ceiling above her was plain white, free of shadows and no voices whispering. This was reality. She was back. Her eyes quickly scanned the room. The curtains swayed gently, even though all the windows were shut. She felt a pulse in her scar on her chest, which seemed to glow lightly as if it still held memories.“Vincent…?” Her voice wavered. There was no reply—just the hum of traffic outside, the sounds of real cars and real people. Life continued. She pressed her palm to her chest, feeling her heart race with each beat frantic and sharp. “Is it over?” she whispered to herself. “Or is this just another trap?” The door creaked open. Her breath stopped short. A shadow appeared in the doorframe. For a wild second, she thought it was the man—his smile, his voice, his chains that made her almost want to scream. But then the shadow spoke

The mirror cracked. A black line split it from top to bottom, and the glass shook as though it breathed. Camela pressed against Vincent’s chest, her nails digging into him. “Vincent…it’s moving. It’s…” she quietly said.“I see it,” his voice came out low and rough, sounding more like a growl than actual words. His claws pressed deeper into her back, shielding her like she might disappear again. The reflection grinned and stepped closer. Its face looked like Vincent's but was twisted, hollow, and cruel. The eyes gleamed like gold soaked in blood. Camela gasped for breath as she whispered, “That’s not you.” The reflection chuckled softly, the sound echoing off the walls. “Not me? Or not the part he wants you to see?” The glass bulged outwards, and shards fell like raindrops onto the floor. Vincent shoved Camela behind him, his claws raised high. “Stay back,” he said.The reflection tilted its head with a smirk. “You can claw at shadows all you want, fox. But you can’t erase the t

The white room felt heavy on Camela’s chest. The monitor beeped steadily, too steadily like a heartbeat that wasn’t hers. Her chest rose, but her breath got stuck halfway. The sheets clung to her fingers like they didn't want to let go. Camela’s chest heaved as she stared at the man sitting in the chair. Her father. He sat there, waiting, smiling as if he had never left. She recognized his face all too well and the smile she had feared for years. He leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, his voice cold like ice: “You fought so hard to escape him, Camela. But you forgot…you’ve not escaped me.” Her hands gripped the white sheets. The scar on her chest throbbed faintly under the hospital gown. She whispered, feeling broken and breathless. “You’re not real…you can’t be real.” Her father chuckled. “I am as real as these walls. As real as the chains you begged him to break. But those chains were never his, Camela. They were mine.” She shook her head, trembling but she didn’t r

The police lights flashed brightly in Camela’s eyes—red, blue, and white. The sirens wailed like voices in pain. “Put your hands up!” multiple voices shouted at once. Camela's chest heaved, and her palms were slick with blood. She looked from the circle of guns to Vincent. But Vincent didn’t move; he stood still, his claws dripping red, and the gold in his eyes shone through the flashing lights. Maria’s lifeless body lay at his feet. And the journal on his other hand continued to write on its own. Camela whispered, her voice trembling. “Vincent…please stop.” The officers moved closer, their boots pounding against the asphalt while metal clashed together. A megaphone shouted: “Drop your weapon! Get on the ground now!” But Vincent only tightened his grip on the journal. The ink spread across the page, forming words that none of the officers could read—only she could see them: “The Bride’s Arrest.” Camela's breath caught in her throat as her scar burned hot against her chest.