The Heavenly Demon of Terror

Samuel's POV

Henry turned toward me with that cold, calculating smirk of his—the one he always wore when he was about to say something brutal. His eyes narrowed just slightly, golden glow dancing in their depths like flickering judgment.

"Well, Samuel," he said, his voice calm yet sharp like a blade under silk, "I must say—you made your pathetic cheating wife's death into a goddamn masterpiece."

I chuckled darkly, resting my gauntlet-clad hand on my waist as memories flashed—bloodied silk sheets, the stench of betrayal, and the look in her eyes when she realized I remembered everything.

"What did you expect?" I asked, my voice low, rough. "A woman like Abigail Bardot... deserves nothing better. What she did to the original Samuel Gebb—" I clicked my tongue, shaking my head. "—she got exactly what she deserved. No mercy. No redemption. Just the same pain, served cold and slow."

Henry didn't even flinch—he understood. He always understood.

And then Owen chuckled from the side, rolling his shoulders like a beast too big for its own skin. "Alright, alright," he said with that cocky glint in his eyes, "enough with that trashy novel talk." He stepped forward between us again. "The way the Heavenly Demon transmigrated into that world and ended that bitch's career? Legendary."

He made a mock explosion with his hands. "Boom. Whole genre of drama and betrayal just got deleted."

I snorted. "I didn't just delete the genre. I rewrote it in blood."