Script Walker

Her fingers shook,not from weakness. From the need to control something. Anything. Me. "I want them all dead," she whispered into my shoulder. "Every. Last. One." I wrapped my arms around her. Let her tremble. Not because I cared. But because this was where empires were born: not on thrones, but in broken chambers and whispered grief. "It's already begun," I said into her hair. She looked up at me,those green eyes glassy with heat and hatred. "You'll kill them for me?" "No," I said. "I'll kill them for *us*." She kissed me like a drowning woman. No ceremony. No coyness. Just hunger and rage tangled into something that barely felt human. And I gave her what she needed,not love, not comfort, but the illusion of control. That's what sex is. A chess move with sweat. We collapsed onto her bed like monarchs of ashes. Her grief was my weapon. My whispers were her gospel. And somewhere, beneath all the heat and hatred, she forgot that her son had screamed. I didn't. Later, when the candlelight dimmed and she finally fell asleep beside me,arm thrown over my chest like a claim,I stared at the ceiling, replaying the scene in my mind. Her son's death wasn't clean. It wasn't meant to be. It was a ritual. One sacrifice to awaken a world not yet ready. I opened my HUD. [Narrative Skill: Cinematic Reflexes - Passive Trigger: COMBAT SETPIECE - SUCCESSFUL EXECUTION] [Event Branching Complete: Historical Rewrite Unlocked] [Villain Proximity Rising: The Scriptorian watches your edits.] Good. Let him watch. The Director's Cut could hide behind his twisted timelines all he wanted,this was my spinoff now.