I Was the Hero, But She Turned Me Into the Villain

The first rays of sunlight filtered through the rusty cracks, gently bathing my face. I slowly opened my eyes, adjusting them to the light. The contrast hit me immediately: there were no silk curtains or soft beds, only dirt and cold stone.

I clumsily stood up from that hard board, stretched my arms, and began to move my body slightly. Every muscle protested immediately, as if screaming how unaccustomed it was to the effort.

—Tch... A body this weak... it was a real problem.

Every part ached. I couldn’t even move properly; my legs had already cramped.

—Pathetic... —I muttered, trying to shake off the numbness.

I forced myself to stand again. It didn’t matter how uncomfortable or painful it was—I had no intention of ever being powerless again.

—Chikkkk...

Then a harsh squeak interrupted my thoughts; the cell door had opened. A beam of light illuminated the figure standing there: an elderly man with perfectly combed hair, thin glasses, and an impeccable dark suit that clashed completely with the filth of the place.

His face was a mask of iron, firm and without emotion, though his gaze—deep, calculating—pierced sharply into me.

—Young master —he said with a bow so slight it was almost imperceptible.