Exactly six minutes had passed since they placed their order. The passage of time inside the quaint, dimly lit bakery felt entirely different from the fast-paced, high-stakes reality Max was usually accustomed to. Here, there were no ticking time bombs, no sniper scopes glinting from distant rooftops, and no magical anomalies threatening to tear the fabric of reality apart. There was only the gentle, soothing hum of the old ceiling fans, the rich, intoxicating aroma of freshly ground coffee beans, and the sweet, buttery scent of pastries baking in the back room.
Max sat comfortably in his wooden chair, his broad shoulders relaxed, though his amber eyes still unconsciously scanned the small café, tracking the exits and the windows out of pure, deeply ingrained habit. Sitting across from him was Bellatrix, who was currently tapping her fingers excitedly against the edge of the rustic wooden table. She looked incredibly beautiful in the soft afternoon light, her blonde hair catching the faint golden rays filtering through the glass panes.
From the swinging wooden doors of the kitchen, the elderly owner finally emerged. He moved with a slow, careful shuffle, carrying a round silver tray laden with their requested treats. As the old man approached their table, the rich scent of the food preceded him.
He gently placed the items onto the table one by one. There were two large, steaming ceramic mugs of black coffee, a beautifully plated slice of rich, dark chocolate cake, and a few freshly baked, flaky croissants dusted with powdered sugar.
As the plates were set down, Bellatrix's gray eyes sparkled with pure, unadulterated excitement. She looked like a child waking up on Christmas morning, entirely forgetting the fact that she was a brilliant, highly educated chemist who had just synthesized lethal nerve gas a few days prior.
"Here's your order, Miss and Sir. Please, take your time and enjoy," the old man said, his voice raspy but full of genuine warmth. He offered them a kind, wrinkled smile, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He then reached into the pocket of his flour-dusted apron and pulled out a small, handwritten receipt, placing it respectfully near the edge of the table.
Max nodded his head in acknowledgment, offering the old man a polite smile. He reached out and picked up the small slip of paper. The total bill was written there in neat, cursive handwriting. The sum of their coffee and pastries came out to exactly twenty US dollars.
It was an incredibly modest sum. To a normal civilian, it was a fair price for a nice afternoon snack. But to Max, a man who possessed hundreds of millions of dollars scattered across untraceable offshore bank accounts—wealth accumulated through high-profile assassinations and shadowy underworld contracts—it was literally pocket change.
Max reached into the inner pocket of his dark jacket and pulled out his sleek, minimalist leather wallet. He didn't even bother looking for smaller bills. He simply pulled out a crisp, newly printed one-hundred-dollar bill and handed it directly to the elderly owner.
"Here you go," Max said smoothly, extending his hand.
The old man looked down at the money. As his cloudy eyes registered the denomination of the green bill, they widened in absolute shock. He took a hesitant step back, raising his trembling hands in the air as if the money were on fire.
"Si—sir, this is far too big!" the old man stammered, his voice filled with genuine panic. He frantically shook his head side to side. "The total of your orders is only twenty dollars! I cannot possibly accept this much from you. I don't even have enough cash in my register to give you proper change for a hundred-dollar bill right now. I—I can't accept this, sir!"
Max kept his hand extended, his expression softening into a look of profound, gentle reassurance. He shook his head slowly.
"Just keep the change," Max replied, his tone calm and unyielding. "Let's just say it is a small token of my goodwill towards you and your establishment. I noticed that the interior of your bakery is a bit worn down. I would love to see you renovate this beautiful place someday. So, look at this not as a tip, but as my payment to you for at least starting to improve this bakery."
The old man stood frozen, staring at the crisp hundred-dollar bill. Slowly, with trembling fingers, he reached out and took the money from Max's hand. He gripped it tightly, pulling it to his chest as if it were a precious artifact. The sheer shock on his face melted away, instantly replaced by an overwhelming wave of gratitude.
He immediately bowed his head, bending deeply at the waist, repeating the motion several times in rapid succession.
"Thank you, sir! Thank you so much!" the old man practically sobbed, his voice cracking with heavy emotion. "You have absolutely no idea how helpful this money will be for me. You don't know how much this means… it will be incredibly helpful for my wife's surgery."
The atmosphere at the table shifted instantly. The light, casual mood of the date was pierced by the heavy, sobering reality of the old man's words.
Bellatrix, who had just picked up her fork to dive into the chocolate cake, stopped entirely. She lowered her fork back onto the plate, her gray eyes widening in sudden concern.
"Your wife is in the hospital right now?" Bellatrix asked, her voice dropping into a soft, empathetic whisper.
The old man slowly stood up straight, nodding his head. A profound, crushing sadness shadowed his wrinkled features.
"Ja, she is," the old man confirmed, his voice thick with unshed tears. "My beloved wife is currently lying in the Intensive Care Unit at the city hospital. A few weeks ago, she was diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer. The doctors say the treatments are incredibly expensive, and… and the bakery barely makes enough to cover our daily living expenses, let alone the massive medical bills."
He looked down at the hundred-dollar bill in his hands, a single tear escaping his eye and rolling down his weathered cheek.
Max sat perfectly still in his chair, listening to the old man's heartbreaking confession. As the word 'hospital' and 'cancer' echoed in his ears, his highly trained, disciplined mind involuntarily slipped backward in time.
He wasn't thinking about his thousand of lifetimes as Sylan the Dark Lord in the magical realm. He wasn't thinking about the devastating magical wars or the countless times he had been killed by the Saintess. Instead, his mind was dragged back to a much darker, much more personal tragedy right here on Earth.
He remembered his parents.
He remembered the specific, terrifying night when he was just a helpless little boy. He remembered the metallic smell of fresh blood soaking into the hardwood floors of his childhood home. He remembered the agonizing, desperate cries of his mother and father as they were brutally slaughtered by a fifteen-year-old girl—a girl he had foolishly trusted. They had died right in front of his eyes, leaving him entirely alone in a cold, unforgiving world.
Max lowered his gaze to the wooden table, his fists unconsciously clenching in his lap.
'If Mom and Dad could see me right now…' Max thought inwardly, a heavy, suffocating weight pressing down on his chest. 'If they could see the man I grew up to become… if they saw me giving away hundreds of dollars to a struggling old man… would they be proud of me?'
He stared at his own hands—hands that were stained with the invisible blood of hundreds of assassination targets.
'Nahh, they probably wouldn't be,' Max answered his own internal question, a bitter, cynical feeling washing over him. 'They wouldn't be proud. After all, they raised me to be a good, honest boy. But I failed them. I became a monster to survive. Every single cent in my bank accounts, all the massive wealth I possess… it all comes from that dirty, bloody job. It is blood money, earned by taking lives in the dark corners of the underworld.'
He closed his amber eyes for a fraction of a second, fighting the dark tide of self-loathing that always threatened to drown him when he thought about his past.
But then, he took a deep, steadying breath. He forced his eyes open and looked at the weeping old man standing before him.
'Nahh,' Max corrected himself inwardly, his resolve hardening. 'Even if my money was earned through violence and death, what matters is how I use it now. No matter where this wealth comes from, if I can use it to help struggling couples who are facing the absolute hardest times of their lives… then it means something. I know my parents. They were incredibly kind people. If they were here, they would want me to help. They would be proud of me for saving a life, especially a love like theirs.'
Max suddenly uncrossed his arms and sat forward, resting his elbows on the table. He looked directly into the old man's tear-filled eyes, his voice slicing through the heavy sorrow in the air.
"How about this," Max said firmly, cutting off the old man's quiet sobbing. "How about if I donate the money for your wife's entire medical treatment?"
The elderly owner froze. His cloudy eyes widened to an impossible degree, sheer, unadulterated shock rendering him completely speechless. He stared at Max as if the young man had just offered him the moon.
"I—I…" the old man stuttered, his jaw trembling. "I would gladly accept…"
He stopped himself abruptly, realizing that his initial reaction sounded desperate and improper. He quickly gathered whatever shred of dignity he had left, straightened his posture, and tried to speak formally.
"I would gladly receive your help, sir," the old man said, his voice shaking violently with the force of his emotions. "Name anything you want in return. If you want a percentage of this bakery, if you want me to work for you for the rest of my life… just name your price. Please, just help me save my wife."
The old man couldn't hold it back anymore. The dam of his composure completely broke. He fell to his knees right beside the table, the tears flowing freely down his face, completely uncaring of how he looked to anyone else in the room.
"She is absolutely all I have in this world, sir," he pleaded, his hands gripping the edge of Max's table. "Please… please save my wife. I would do anything. I beg of you."
Max immediately stood up from his chair. He reached down and gently but firmly grabbed the old man by his shoulders, hauling him back up to his feet. He couldn't stand seeing someone reduced to such a state of desperate begging, especially for something as pure as love.
Max patted the old man's frail shoulders, offering him a look of absolute, unwavering reassurance.
"Listen to me," Max said, his voice low and incredibly gentle. "There is absolutely no need for you to pay me back. I don't want a stake in your bakery, and I don't want your servitude. As long as you keep fighting for her, and as long as you maintain this café clean and proper for the community… then that is already more than enough payment for me."
The old man stared into Max's amber eyes, seeing nothing but pure, genuine sincerity. He collapsed forward slightly, wrapping his arms around himself as he bowed his head over and over again, weeping openly.
"Thank you, sir! Thank you so much! May God bless you and your family a thousand times over!" the old man cried, his gratitude echoing off the walls of the small bakery.
Max simply waved his hand dismissively, wanting to move past the heavy emotional display.
"It's fine. Now, go grab your banking details and the hospital's routing information," Max instructed practically. "Bring them to me, and I will wire the necessary funds directly to the hospital's financial department right now to cover her ICU stay and the cancer treatments."
The old man nodded frantically, wiping his wet face with his apron, and practically sprinted back toward the kitchen doors to find his financial documents.
Meanwhile, sitting quietly on the other side of the table, Bellatrix had watched the entire exchange unfold. She hadn't said a single word. She simply sat there, her hands folded in her lap, watching her boyfriend casually offer to pay what was likely hundreds of thousands of dollars to save the life of a complete stranger.
As Max sat back down in his chair, pulling out his encrypted smartphone to prepare for the bank transfer, he noticed her intense stare. He looked up, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
"What?" Max asked, tilting his head slightly. "Is there something on my face?"
Bellatrix slowly shook her head side to side. A profound, incredibly warm smile spread across her features, reaching all the way to her bright gray eyes.
"Nothing," Bellatrix replied softly, her voice filled with a deep, reverent affection. "I'm just incredibly glad that I chose a perfect man to be my boyfriend~."
She delivered the compliment with a sweet, teasing lilt, but her eyes were entirely serious.
Max let out a short, surprised laugh, rubbing the back of his neck as a faint blush touched his cheeks.
"A perfect man? I wouldn't go that far," Max deflected smoothly. "Now, come on. Eat before the cake gets warm and the coffee gets cold."
"Mhm~!" Bellatrix hummed happily, picking up her fork and taking a delicate bite of the rich chocolate cake.
However, despite her cheerful exterior, her highly analytical mind was working in overdrive. She hadn't just been passively watching the interaction; she had been actively testing him.
Bellatrix possessed a very specific, almost supernatural psychological trait. It was an uncanny ability to read people, an extreme hypersensitivity to micro-expressions, body language, and vocal inflections. It was a trait she had inherited directly from her German grandmother and her Auntie Irmela. She could act as a human lie detector. She could almost always tell when a person was lying, when they were hiding a dark motive, or when they were putting on a fake persona for personal gain.
She had watched Max intently as he spoke to the old man. She had watched his eyes, the set of his jaw, the subtle relaxation of his shoulders when he made the offer.
She had expected to find at least a sliver of arrogance, a hint of a superiority complex, or the subtle pride of a wealthy man showing off his money to impress his date. But she found absolutely none of that. His micro-expressions revealed nothing but a profound, aching sorrow, followed by an iron-clad, genuine desire to help. There was no ulterior motive. He truly, selflessly wanted to save the old man's wife.
'He is completely genuine,' Bellatrix concluded inwardly, her heart swelling with an emotion so powerful it almost frightened her. 'He is a legendary assassin. A man who has supposedly killed hundreds of people. The world calls him a monster, a ghost, the Reaper. And yet, beneath all of that blood and darkness… his core is so incredibly kind and gentle. He is a truly good person.'
She took a sip of her hot coffee, the bitter liquid warming her chest. She looked at him over the rim of her ceramic mug.
"Hey, Max?" Bellatrix asked, placing the mug back down onto its saucer.
"Hmm?" Max replied, pausing before taking a bite of his croissant.
"Why did you really help that owner?" Bellatrix asked, leaning forward slightly, her scientific curiosity blending with her romantic interest. "I mean, theoretically speaking, you have absolutely no logical reason to do so. It is not your business, it is an incredible amount of money, and you don't even know his name. So, why?"
Max paused, lowering his pastry back onto the plate. He looked down at the dark, swirling surface of his black coffee. A soft, melancholic smile touched his lips.
"Just that…" Max started, his voice quiet, almost lost in the memory. "…Somehow, looking at his pure desperation to save his wife, it made me remember my deceased parents."
Bellatrix's breath hitched in her throat. Her gray eyes widened in sudden, profound realization. She had prodded at a deeply personal, incredibly painful wound.
"I—I'm so sorry," Bellatrix stammered quickly, reaching across the table to gently touch his hand. "I shouldn't have asked that. I didn't mean to bring up painful memories."
Max gently turned his hand over, intertwining his fingers with hers. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and waved off her apology with his free hand.
"It's perfectly alright, Bell," Max said, his amber eyes meeting hers. "They have been gone for a very, very long time. It's just that… I want to make them proud of the man I am today by helping that poor couple. Because I know for a fact that if my parents were still alive today, they would literally donate their own money to help people like them, even if they were complete strangers."
"Even if they were strangers?" Bellatrix asked, amazed by the sheer, unconditional generosity he described.
Max nodded his head firmly. "Yeah. That was exactly the kind of people my mom and dad were. They believed in community. They believed in helping those who couldn't help themselves."
He took a slow breath, his gaze drifting away from her face, looking out the window toward the busy street, though he wasn't really seeing the cars or the pedestrians.
"And also," Max continued, his voice dropping into a barely audible whisper. "Seeing that old man break down like that… it reminded me just how incredibly powerful love truly is. How it can push a person to their absolute breaking point, and make them willing to sacrifice everything they have for just one more day with the person they cherish."
As Max spoke those words, his fractured mind violently shifted gears. He wasn't thinking about Earth anymore. He wasn't thinking about his parents.
His amber eyes glazed over slightly as a vivid, agonizingly beautiful memory forced its way to the forefront of his consciousness.
He remembered her.
He remembered the flowing, midnight-blue hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall of shadows. He remembered the piercing, intelligent ruby-red eyes that could look right through his soul. He remembered the fierce, stubborn pout she always wore when she was trying to hide her embarrassment.
He remembered Emhyria Van Hemreis. The Witch of Calamity. The exiled elven Princess. The true love of his thousand of lifetimes..
He remembered the feeling of holding her dying body in his arms on the blood-soaked battlefield of the Aen Elle Empire. He remembered the exact, agonizing sound of his own voice screaming at the heavens as her magical core shattered and her life faded away. He remembered the sheer, world-ending grief that had driven him to use every ounce of his dark magic to rewind time, over and over and over again, suffering thousands of excruciating regressions just for a minuscule, impossible chance to see her smile one more time.
The pain of her loss, even now, safely back in his original world, was a jagged, bleeding wound in the center of his chest. It was a pain that would never fully heal. It seemed that no matter what timeline he was in, no matter who he was dating, he simply could not completely forget her.
Bellatrix, sitting across from him, immediately sensed the drastic shift in his aura. His micro-expressions changed from gentle nostalgia to a look of profound, devastating heartbreak. She saw the light leave his amber eyes, replaced by a hollow, haunting stare.
"Max?" Bellatrix called out softly, her voice laced with sudden worry. She tightened her grip on his hand. "Max, are you alright? You zoned out completely."
The physical pressure of her hand on his skin acted like an anchor, violently pulling him back from the magical realm and into the present reality of the bakery.
Max blinked rapidly, his eyes refocusing on Bellatrix's concerned face. He took a sharp breath, forcing the heavy, suffocating memories of the elf back into the deepest, darkest vault of his mind. He couldn't let the ghosts of his past ruin the beautiful present he was trying to build with the woman sitting in front of him.
"O—oh, yeah. I'm perfectly alright, don't mind me," Max replied quickly, forcing a bright, reassuring smile onto his face to mask the internal turmoil. He gently pulled his hand back and picked up his pastry. "Let's just focus on the food and enjoy the date, alright?"
Bellatrix studied his face for a long moment. Her lie-detector intuition told her he was hiding a massive amount of pain, but she also knew that pushing him on it right now would ruin the afternoon. He was entitled to his secrets, and she was willing to wait until he was ready to share them.
"Alright," Bellatrix slowly nodded, returning his smile. "Let's eat."
For the next hour, the atmosphere at the table slowly lightened, returning to the comfortable, warm dynamic they had established. The old man had returned with the banking details, Max had swiftly completed the massive wire transfer on his phone, and the owner had retreated to the back room to call his wife in the hospital, weeping with joy.
With the heavy business concluded, Max and Bellatrix shifted their conversation toward lighter, more personal topics. They were actively trying to bridge the gap between their chaotic introduction and a normal, healthy relationship.
"So," Max asked, taking a sip of his coffee. "Besides locking yourself in a highly hazardous laboratory and creating nerve gas, what are your actual hobbies, Bell? What do you do for fun?"
Bellatrix laughed, using her fork to point at him playfully. "Hey, I don't just make nerve gas! I am a very multifaceted person, thank you very much."
She took a bite of her cake, chewing thoughtfully before answering.
"Well, honestly, my primary hobby really is chemistry. I genuinely love the theoretical math and the precise execution of synthesizing new compounds. But outside of that… I am a massive gamer. I love deep, narrative-driven RPGs, complex strategy games, and occasionally getting excessively angry at competitive online shooters. I also spend a lot of time reading deep-dive lore forums on Reddit, and I enjoy building highly complex, thousand-piece puzzle sets."
She looked at him, her gray eyes curious. "What about you, Mr. Hitman? I can't imagine you playing video games. What does a legendary assassin do when he's not working out or cleaning his guns?"
Max smiled, leaning back in his chair.
"Well, you might be surprised," Max replied, swirling the remaining dark liquid in his mug. "My absolute favorite subject, and my primary hobby when it comes to reading, is History. I love reading about ancient empires, massive historical wars, military strategies, and the rise and fall of civilizations."
Bellatrix raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised by his answer. She placed her fork down, leaning forward with immense interest.
"History? Really?" Bellatrix asked, tilting her head. "That is incredibly surprising. I mean, no offense, but I've lived in America for a long time now, and I've noticed that most Americans tend to strongly dislike studying history. A lot of people find it boring, or they are just too lazy to study the complex timelines and geopolitical shifts. They usually prefer fast entertainment."
Max let out a deep, knowing chuckle. He knew exactly what she meant. The modern world was obsessed with the future and the immediate present. But to a man who had lived thousand of lifetimes, the past was the only thing that made sense.
"Yeah, I am well aware of the stereotype," Max agreed, nodding his head. "And it's mostly true. But I never found it boring. I actually got that specific trait from my mother."
His voice softened, the bitter memories replaced by a fond, warm recollection.
"When I was a little kid, before everything went dark, my mom used to read to me every single night. But she didn't read me fairy tales or fantasy stories. She read me massive, detailed historical encyclopedias. She taught me about the Roman legions, the tactical brilliance of Alexander the Great, the political intrigue of the Renaissance, and the brutal realities of the World Wars. She always told me that if you don't understand the mistakes of the past, you are doomed to be a victim in the future."
He looked at Bellatrix, his amber eyes serious.
"And honestly, studying those historical military tactics and understanding how massive empires collapsed from within… it gave me a massive tactical advantage when I eventually entered the underworld. It taught me how to read the political landscape of criminal syndicates and how to strike where they were weakest."
'And it also taught me how to command a literal army of millions of demons when I was forced to become the Dark Lord,' Max added inwardly, keeping the magical truth hidden for now. 'The tactics of Hannibal and Caesar saved my life on the plains of the Aen Elle Empire more times than I can count.'
Bellatrix listened to his explanation with rapt attention. She rested her chin in her hands, her eyes wide with admiration.
"That is incredibly profound, Max," Bellatrix said softly. "It makes perfect sense. You took academic history and applied it to real-world survival. It's brilliant."
She then smiled, deciding to dig a little deeper into his hidden talents.
"Okay, so you are a history buff. What else? Are there any hidden, artistic talents behind all those muscles?" Bellatrix teased gently. "Do you paint? Do you sculpt?"
Max laughed, shaking his head. "I have zero talent for painting. My hands are too heavy for delicate brushwork. But… I do play an instrument."
"Oh?" Bellatrix's eyes lit up instantly. "What instrument?"
"The violin," Max answered simply.
Bellatrix gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in sheer delight.
"The violin?! Really?!" she exclaimed, her voice rising in pitch. She simply could not reconcile the image of this towering, heavily scarred, lethal assassin delicately holding a classical string instrument beneath his chin. It was a completely mind-boggling contrast.
"Yeah," Max confirmed, a small smile playing on his lips as he remembered his father. "I play the violin. It's a skill I inherited directly from my dad. He was a classically trained musician before he settled down. He started teaching me how to hold the bow when I was barely four years old."
He looked down at his own large, calloused hands.
"He always told me that playing the violin required two things: absolute, uncompromising discipline, and the ability to feel the emotion hidden within the wood. If you only have discipline, you sound like a machine. If you only have emotion, you sound like a chaotic mess. You have to balance them perfectly."
Max sighed, the memory of the music echoing faintly in his mind.
"After they died, playing the violin was the only thing that kept me tethered to my humanity. When I was deep in the underworld, surrounded by blood and betrayal, I would lock myself in my safehouse and play the most complex, agonizing sonatas I could find. It required so much intense focus that it drowned out the nightmares."
'And in the magical world,' Max thought inwardly, a bittersweet ache blooming in his chest. 'When the war was at its worst, when Emhy was exhausted from leading her people and terrified of the prophecy… I would summon an ethereal, magical stringed instrument and play for her under the glow of the twin moons. It was the only thing that could ever make the Witch of Calamity fall asleep peacefully in my arms.'
Bellatrix stared at him, completely captivated by the poetic tragedy of his life. He was a man composed of such extreme, beautiful contradictions. He was a killer who saved lives. He was an uneducated delinquent who mastered chemical warfare. He was a brutal fighter who played the violin.
She was falling for him. Hard. And she didn't care about the danger anymore.
The afternoon sun slowly began to dip lower in the sky, casting long, golden shadows across the bakery floor. They had spent hours sitting at that small wooden table, seamlessly shifting from heavy, emotional confessions to lighthearted banter about their favorite foods and video games. They had built more emotional intimacy in one afternoon than most couples build in months.
Max glanced at the vintage clock hanging on the bakery wall. The brass hands indicated it was already 5:56 PM. The golden hour was rapidly transitioning into the cool twilight of the evening.
"Hahaha, wow," Max laughed, genuinely surprised as he looked at the time. "It seems we have been talking here for hours. Time really flies fast when you're actually enjoying yourself, huh?"
Bellatrix looked at the clock, her eyes widening slightly. She reached up and scratched her cheek, a soft, embarrassed smile on her face.
"Yea—yeah, time's so fast," Bellatrix agreed, feeling a sudden pang of disappointment that the afternoon was coming to an end. She had loved every single second of simply talking to him without the looming threat of stalkers or the intense physical pressure of their earlier encounters.
They slowly gathered their things. Max stood up, stretching his legs, and walked over to the counter to bid a final, quiet goodbye to the elderly owner, who was still practically glowing with tearful joy.
They walked out of the bakery together. The air outside had cooled significantly, the harsh heat of the day replaced by a gentle, refreshing evening breeze. The sky above the city was a breathtaking canvas of deep purples, vibrant oranges, and soft pinks as the sun began its final descent below the horizon.
Max and Bellatrix walked side-by-side down the sidewalk toward the private parking lot where the aggressive black Corvette was waiting for them. The walk was quiet, filled with a comfortable, deeply contented silence.
As they reached the side of the sleek sports car, Max reached into his pocket to retrieve his electronic key fob. He was just about to press the unlock button when Bellatrix suddenly stopped walking and turned to face him.
"Max," Bellatrix called out, her voice soft but commanding.
"?" Max paused, his thumb hovering over the button. He turned his head to look at her, raising an inquisitive eyebrow.
He didn't even have time to process her movement.
Before he could speak, Bellatrix stepped directly into his personal space. She reached up, grabbing the collar of his dark jacket with both hands to pull him down slightly. She stood on her tiptoes, closed her gray eyes, and firmly pressed her soft lips directly against his.
It wasn't a rough, desperate, or heavily sexual kiss like the ones they had shared in the heat of the previous night. It was a slow, sweet, lingering kiss. It was a kiss that communicated pure, unadulterated romantic affection, a silent promise of trust and growing love.
Max was completely, entirely stunned.
His highly trained assassin reflexes, capable of dodging point-blank gunfire, completely failed him. His arms hung limply at his sides. He forgot how to breathe. The key fob nearly slipped from his fingers.
As Bellatrix slowly pulled away, breaking the contact, Max stood frozen like a statue.
Slowly, inexorably, an intense, burning heat began to rise from his collar. It crept up his neck, flooded his cheeks, and turned the very tips of his ears a bright, glowing shade of crimson. He was blushing so hard he felt like his face was going to catch fire.
Bellatrix landed back on her heels, looking up at his incredibly red, flustered face. A brilliant, triumphant smile spread across her lips.
"That's my specific reward for you for being such an awesome, genuinely kind person today," Bellatrix said, her voice dropping into a sweet, melodic tease.
She then took a small step back, her hands clasped behind her back, tilting her head playfully.
"And also, Max—" she continued, her gray eyes shining with pure enthusiasm.
"Can you please show me you playing the violin sometime soon? I really, desperately want to see it! Teehee~!" she requested, adding a cute, highly uncharacteristic giggle at the end to maximize the damage to his composure.
Max was still standing rigidly by the door of the Corvette, his brain completely offline. He couldn't process the sudden surge of overwhelming, mundane affection.
He swallowed hard, his amber eyes wide as he stared down at her beaming face.
'Ahh…' Max thought inwardly, a profound, undeniable realization hitting him like a freight train. The heavy, dark walls he had built around his heart to protect himself from the pain of his past were crumbling into dust.
'I really am starting to like her. I am actually starting to love her personality. It seems… I am finally starting to open my own heart again to someone new.'
For the second time in his entire, agonizing existence—after surviving the brutal underworld of Earth, and after enduring the agonizing cycle of 30,000 regressions in the magical realm—the legendary Reaper, the terrifying Dark Lord, was slowly, genuinely falling in love again.
Max finally managed to jump-start his vocal cords. He forced the blush down, though his ears were still bright red, and offered her a soft, incredibly warm smile that completely transformed his scarred face.
"Sure," Max whispered, his voice deep and rough with emotion.
Bellatrix blinked, her smile widening. "Sure what?"
"Sure, I can show you how I play the violin," Max clarified, his amber eyes locking onto hers with an absolute, unbreakable promise. "I will play it just for you."
Bellatrix's heart soared into the stratosphere. She practically bounced on her heels, her joy impossible to contain.
"Gladly!" Bellatrix cheered, her voice echoing in the quiet parking lot. "I absolutely can't wait for you to show it to me!"
Max chuckled, a rich, happy sound. He finally pressed the button on the fob, the Corvette chirping to life as the sunset painted them in a final wash of golden light, ready to drive them toward whatever future awaited them in the dark.