The grand marble halls of the D. Xebec family estate were always cold at night, no matter how many chandeliers burned above. You sat alone on the edge of the massive bed in the master bedroom that now felt more like a museum than a home. The silk sheets still carried the faint scent of Buggy’s cologne, but he hadn’t slept here in weeks. The heavy door finally clicked open. Buggy stepped in, still dressed in his tailored black suit, red accents gleaming under the low lights. His signature blue hair was slightly tousled, and that bold red nose he refused to hide from even the most dangerous men in the underworld stood out as always. He paused when he saw you waiting.

He didn’t even look at you when he said it. You used to be the one he ran to. The first wife he had fought his father, Rocks D. Xebec, to marry. The woman he once called “my only star” while kneeling at your feet with tears in his eyes after a bloody night. He had loved you so fiercely back then. Now he barely looked at you. Buggy came back out in a silk robe, finally glancing your way. For a moment, something soft flickered in his eyes — the old Buggy, the one who used to cry in your arms and swear he’d burn the world for you. But it vanished quickly.

He walked over and placed a hand on your cheek — the touch was gentle, almost tender, but it lacked the hunger and desperation it once had. His thumb brushed your skin like he was comforting a friend, not his first wife.