Valentina stood there—gun in hand, crown in mind. Her lips curled into something between a smile and a threat. Her dress was blood red, her heels sharp as spite, and her hands steady. She didn’t tremble. That made two of us.

“I was supposed to be you,” she said, her voice calm but cracked around the edges.

“No,” I replied. “You were supposed to be small. And you succeeded.”

Her jaw clenched. Her knuckles whitened on the grip of the gun. We began to circle one another, slow and lethal, like wild animals. No music. No pretense. Just breath and fury and what was left of two broken queens.

“You took him,” she hissed. “You stole him. Like everything else.”

I laughed, bitter and dry. “He was never yours. Just bored. And you were a distraction. One he didn’t even have the decency to keep private.”

Her nostrils flared. The barrel rose slowly. I still didn’t move.

The metal caught the light as she pointed it straight at my chest. I met her eyes.

“I’m not afraid of dying,” I said. “But you should be afraid of living after this.”

Her finger twitched. I braced. Then she fired. The sound split the air like a whip. I dropped low just in time. The bullet shattered concrete behind me.

I lunged. The gun slipped as we collided, skidding across the floor. She grabbed my hair. I hit her in the ribs. We fought—brutal, savage, and raw. There was nothing elegant in it. This was not a dance. This was war in its ugliest, most honest form.

She scratched, bit, clawed. I elbowed, punched, slammed. At one point, she reached for the gun again. I kicked it aside. She grabbed a shard of glass and slashed my shoulder. The pain didn’t stop me. It focused me. Blood soaked into my coat, warm and hot. I didn’t flinch.

I caught her wrist and twisted. She screamed. I shoved her down hard, straddling her hips and pinning her arms beneath my knees. My hand went to her throat—not to kill. Just to stop the chaos. She thrashed once. Then froze. Her mascara smeared. Her pride bled out across the floor.

Our faces were inches apart. Both of us breathing like cornered animals. My pulse roared. My voice didn’t.

“This is where your story ends,” I whispered. Her eyes widened with hate. She was still waiting for someone to save her. Still waiting for the script to change.

Her eyes burned with something I once recognized in myself—hunger that hadn’t been fed, not even by chaos. She didn’t just want to hurt me. She wanted to erase me. To climb out of my shadow by burying me under it. That was her mistake. I’d never left a shadow. I was the flame.

“You don’t get to play victim now,” I said as we circled. “You orchestrated this. Every piece of it.”

She threw back her head and laughed. “And you still came. That makes you stupid or suicidal.”

I stepped forward. “That makes me ready.”

Her laugh cut short. Her finger twitched again. I braced. At some point she lunged at me again, grabbed the gun.

When she pulled the trigger, I felt the bullet pass like heat near my neck. Close. Too close. I hit the ground and rolled, boots scraping against the floor. She chased. I grabbed a metal pipe and swung. She ducked. Her knee hit my ribs. The air knocked out of me—but I didn’t stop.

We crashed into crates. Glass broke. She pulled at my coat and yanked me down. My shoulder throbbed. My vision blurred once, just for a second, before sharpening again.

“You think you’re untouchable,” she hissed. “I’ve hurt more than you’ll ever understand.”

I spat blood to the side. “Then you should’ve learned by now—hurting doesn’t make you stronger. Surviving does.”

She screamed and swung the glass. I caught her arm and shoved it hard against the wall. Her hand dropped. The glass fell. I slammed my head against hers, dizzying us both. She stumbled. I tackled it. We went down hard. The floor groaned beneath our weight. Her heel dug into my thigh. I grabbed her by the throat.

For a moment, she stopped moving. We just breathed—gasping, broken. Her lip was split. My shoulder was leaking. The air around us smelled like blood and smoke.

“You can kill me,” she said. “But they’ll still remember me.”

I leaned close. “No. They’ll remember who beat you. And what was left of you after.”

I pinned her harder, locking her down completely. Her hands twitched. Her jaw moved like she was chewing words she couldn’t swallow. I pressed my knee into her chest until she choked.

“You wanted my crown,” I said. “You don’t even know how to wear it.”

She wheezed out a curse. I grabbed the side of her head.

“Look at me,” I whispered. “This is the last face you’ll see in power.”

In the chaos of every blow, I didn’t forget why I came. Not for vengeance. Not for fear. For finality. Valentina was a page that needed to be closed. Not rewritten. Not pitied. Closed. I had come to write the last sentence.

Her breath hitched as I pressed down. She clawed at my sleeve, her strength faltering.

“You’ll never be free of me,” she gasped. “You’ll always see me in every shadow.”

I leaned down. “Then I’ll light a match in every room I enter.” That silenced her for good. Her head dropped back. Her limbs sagged. For a second, I thought she was done.

Then came the sound. That sharp metallic crack. One I didn’t recognize until it was too late. Not her gun—it was further back. Somewhere behind me. Behind the crates. The air split again. A second shot rang out.

And someone behind me collapsed.