All Chapters of Until The Last Day: Chapter 21 - Chapter 30

The silence felt so heavy that Camela thought her heart had stopped beating. Her scream echoed in the hospital room, but there was no response. Just the sound of her uneven breathing broke the stillness. The journal lay open on the floor, the black letters blazing like fire across the page: Final Journal. Entry Three: The fox dies first. Camela's hand glided to Vincent’s chest. His heartbeat pounded beneath her palm—alive, strong, and steady, but the words on the page seemed to sink into him, pulling at his pulse. “Vincent!” She shook him, her voice urgent. “Stay with me. Please don’t listen to it. Don’t let it take you away.” He narrowed his golden eyes with determination and declared. “I am not ink. I am not part of his story. I am flesh. And I belong to her.” Her throat tightened as she wished she could believe him, but the letters kept moving and crawling across the page like spiders, twisting into shapes she almost recognized. Suddenly, the page tore itself free and floate

The room snapped back into silence. Camela gasped as she crashed to the floor hard, her cheek pressed against the cold wood. There were no dark voids, no chains, no screaming monitors—just her small apartment, the bed, and the thin curtains swaying in the breeze. Reality. But the scar on her chest burned white-hot beneath her skin. She grabbed at it with trembling hands as she whispered, “Vincent…” He was right there beside her, crouched beside her with heavy breaths, his claws dripping from where he had smashed the monitor. His golden eyes darted across the room with every muscle in his body tense. “It’s real,” she whispered, her lips quivering as she tried to push herself up. “This is the real world. I can feel it…I can smell it…I…I’m here.” Vincent’s hand wrapped around her wrist to help steady her. His voice was low and rough. “Then why does it still smell like him?” Her breath caught in her throat as she felt it too—a presence that felt faint, almost like smoke clinging to

The room was pitch black, way too dark. Camela's eyes snapped open at the sound of the flatline fading into silence. Her heart pounded loudly and unevenly, as if the whole hospital had stopped breathing along with her. Her hands shook as she pushed herself upright in the bed. The sheets clung to her skin, damp with sweat. And the stranger was still there, sitting where Vincent should have been. He wore a black coat and had a pale face, his smile too calm for the cold that surrounded them. “Don’t move,” he said softly. “Not yet. You’ve been gone for a long time.” Her throat burned as though on fire as she asked, “Where…am I?” His eyes sparkled like knives. “You’re back in reality. Or at least…the version of it you left behind.” Camela’s breath hitched as she glanced at the window—just black glass stared back at her. No city lights, no stars, only her faint and broken reflection. The man tilted his head, watching her stare. “Looking for him?” Her chest tightened at his words a

The flatline echoed loudly in the hospital room. Camela’s chest jerked as if her body wanted to fight against the sound, but her eyes stayed fixed on the figure standing in the doorframe. Her father. Alive. The impossible truth stood tall in the doorway, his hands neatly folded behind his back, his facial expression was as cold as stone. His eyes didn’t glance at Vincent even once; they were focused directly on her—intense, unwavering, and commanding. “Camela,” he said again, his voice sharp enough to cut the room in half. “Don’t pay attention to him. Look at me. Just me.” Her body trembled as she responded, “You’re…you’re not real.” Vincent smiled slowly, his golden eyes still locked onto her. His voice was smooth and almost teasing. “Oh, he’s very much real, Camela. Real enough to remind you of what chains feel like.” Her father took a step forward, and the monitor wires shook as his shadow stretched across the floor. “I am the only truth you’ve ever known. Don’t let him cha

The curtains fluttered inward, snapping like wings. The hospital room had a strong smell of metal, antiseptic, and fear. Camela sat up in the bed, her scar faintly glowing white beneath the collar of the hospital gown she had on. Her breath came sharp and uneven like glass scraping through her chest. Her eyes darted quickly to the open window. No one was there. Yet—she had heard the voice whisper. It sounded clear and certain. “Fox.” She gripped the blanket tightly. “It wasn’t real,” she murmured. “It wasn’t him. It can’t be him.” The monitor beeped louder, reacting and feeding off her growing panic. A nurse rushed over to her side, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Miss Siegel, please lie back down. You need to rest. You’re safe here.” Safe. The word hurt her more than the scar ever had. Camela turned to the nurse, her lips quivering. “Safe where? The window’s open! He was just here! Didn’t you hear him? Didn’t you see him?” The nurse shook her head slowly, her face ca