Misunderstood Villain: Heroines Mourn My Death

***

{Outside The Projection}

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

"..."

Silence.

Not the usual silence of horror, shock, or disbelief. Just... understanding.

The kind that settled in deep, like dust on an old book no one bothered to clean.

And then someone let out a breath.

"Even he... even he couldn't take it anymore... huh?"

No one answered. No one needed to. It was obvious.

It wasn't a surprise. It wasn't some grand revelation. It was inevitable.

After everything—after the endless blinks, the blood, the loss, the cycle of suffering and fighting of dying and coming back—of course he snapped.

Of course, he went for the kill the moment he got the chance.

Of course, Malik played the game on his own terms.

Played the only game he could, where he finally didn't just react to things but initiated them.

And none of them, not a single one, could judge him for it. Not even the "hero."

Because if it were them?

If they'd been trapped like he was?

If they'd been put through that Hell?

They would've done the same.

Most of them, anyway.

"He really tried."

Someone muttered, voice hoarse.

"He really, really tried to keep it together."

"Did he, though?"

Another scoffed, shaking their head.

"I mean… was he ever really 'together' to begin with?"

"Like you wouldn't have done the same."

"Of course, I would've! That's the point."

"If we had a time loop to abuse, we'd be having all kinds of fun, wouldn't we?"

A few chuckled darkly... He wasn't wrong.

"But the Sultan? His 'fun' was killing his captors. Again. And again. And again. I'm sure what we've seen is only what he bothered to remember."

No one laughed that time.

Huda, who was on the ground, leaning her side on Crimson, had her hands clenched in her lap, trembling.

She wasn't crying. No, that would've been easier. But she looked like she wanted to. Like something inside her had cracked so deep she couldn't even begin to patch it up.

Crimson appeared in a similar state, his beak clicking softly. Slow. Sharp.

His feathers fluffed and then settled repeatedly. He didn't blink. He just stared.

Safira had turned away, arms wrapped around herself, her jaw tight enough to break teeth. She hadn't said a word since it had last resumed. Probably wouldn't for a while.

Layla, though… she looked lost. Like she was still trying to process it. Like she'd been waiting for Malik to come out swinging, but now that he had—now that he'd done it—she wasn't sure how to feel about it.

"I would've done worse."

No one turned to see who had spoken.

But they all knew—it had to be Azeem.

And most of them agreed… they might have done worse.

The projection hadn't shown a man unraveling, losing control.

It hadn't captured some violent, frenzied descent into madness.

No, it showed something far more haunting.

It showed a man who fought to keep himself sane.

A man who held himself together, piece by fragile piece, until there was nothing left to hold.

And that…

That was the most terrifying thing of all.

***

{Inside The Projection}

Malik wasn't perfect.

He wasn't always kind.

He wasn't always wise.

He wasn't always right.

He wasn't always good.

He wasn't always patient.

He wasn't always merciful.

He wasn't always calm.

He wasn't always brave.

He wasn't always strong.

He wasn't always honest.

He wasn't always careful.

He wasn't always selfless.

His actions in those lives held no meaning.

Done only to let out frustration, nothing more.

And yet, he never felt more alive than in those moments.

Going feral yet facing none of the consequences.

'I guess that's one good thing about the curse.'

Sure, his "checkpoint" could've been updated just after he killed one of the officers.

It would've ruined his life more than it already was. And yet... he didn't seem to care.

Such a thought didn't even enter his mind.

He needed this.

Blink.

"Don't resist, kid; we don't wanna rough you up too much."

Malik looked at Cassim and nodded.

He had enough fun.

It was time to get this over with.

...

Malik walked through the streets, his boots clicking against the well-maintained stone roads.

This wasn't Zawaya. No leaning limestone buildings, no filth coating the ground, no constant scent of sweat, shit, and desperation in the air.

This place?

It was… decent.

Hell, it was more than decent.

The buildings were sturdy, clean, even had bits of gold and silver trimming here and there.

People dressed too well. They had that noble stiffness to them, backs straight, noses slightly raised.

Yet that didn't mean their manners were any better.

He saw a woman clutch her child's wrist and pull him away as he passed.

Arguably, they were worse... Yeah. He wasn't any more welcome here than when he was back in his lovely hometown.

"What village is this?"

Malik asked, eyes scanning the strange symbols carved into the stone archways above.

One of the officers to his right scoffed.

"This ain't no 'village,' boy. It's a town, one of the many in the Holy Kingdom. The capital of Markaz."

He nodded, absorbing the information.

'Markaz, huh?'

Though he didn't listen much, if at all when he was taught geography by his old man, he knew bits and pieces.

Markaz, as the man called it, was also known as the Inside, as opposed to the Outskirts, the Dawahi.

There was only one major difference between the two.

One surrounded Al-Fawra while the other didn't.

It was as simple as that.

And now, he was in the capital of it, a land filled with stuck-up bastards that needed to be smacked down a peg or two.

Malik would've done so if he could, but all he was able to do was walk.

So... he kept walking, shoulders squared, chin up, even as he was pushed around by ten fuckers, each one trying to show off a little to their friends.

People stared, whispering behind their hands, gawking like he was some wild animal being paraded through their perfect little town.

That wouldn't be so far from the truth, though not in a bad way, as despite his injuries, Malik kept up with his act, strutting around like a lion amongst men, not letting them see him stutter.

If they thought he was going to kneel for them, they had no idea who they were dealing with.

That day would not be repeated. Never.

Eventually, they reached a massive building—tall, with towers that loomed over the surrounding streets.

Unlike the churches, mosques, and temples he saw, this place had a different kind of authority to it.

The Faraja Station.

Or as the sign above the entrance read in bold golden letters:

{Istgah Faraja: The Bastion of Divine Order}

Quite a long and fancy name for a glorified dungeon.

After a few nods and greetings, they entered, and the officers at the reception barely looked up as Malik was dragged through the halls.

They passed by offices, rooms filled with officials, or as the nameplates called them, {Bureaucrat}, too busy with their paperwork to acknowledge anyone.

Then, the scent shifted—musty, damp, metallic.

They were heading downstairs.

To the cells. The dungeon.

Even now, Malik didn't resist. Not even a sound as they reached what would be his home for the rest of his long life.

He appeared to have accepted this outcome completely.

"Now stay in there until we call you."

Cassim pushed him in, causing Malik to stumble for a step, only to stabilize in the next.

Clang!

The metal cell door slammed shut behind him, cementing his fate, and again, he didn't appear to be bothered by that.

What bothered him, though, was that those fuckers didn't even unlock his chains.

Malik turned to their leader and stared at him, deadpan.

"Hey, Cassim."

His head snapped towards him, surprise apparent on his face.

"H-How do you—"

"Shut."
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Cutting him off, slowly, he raised his bound hands and raised his middle fingers.

"Fuck. You."

Clutching his right fist, Cassim barely held himself back from lashing out and walked away.

"That's what I thought."

Malik leaned back against the cold stone wall, letting out a slow breath.

This... all of this... it was funny really.

He had never been stronger than he was now.

Faster. Sharper. More dangerous than ever before.

And yet, right now, he was at his lowest. The lowest he had ever been.

Malik stared at the ceiling, mind sinking into places he didn't want to go.

And then...

"Act crazy."

A whisper.

Soft. Lingering.

Right against his ear.

He froze.

For a second, he thought he imagined it.

That maybe the exhaustion was finally making him hear shit.

Then it came again.

"Act crazy."

Malik didn't react. Just kept his eyes on the ceiling, mind racing.

Someone was trying to get him out.

That much was obvious. The question was—who? And why?

He had no allies in this place. No friends. No family.

And yet, here he was.

Hearing voices in the dark.

Well.

If they wanted a show…

Malik could play crazy.