The Hero Returns with his Yandere Wife-Chapter 22 - 21

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The room reeked of iron and despair, a suffocating miasma that clung to the damp stone walls and seeped into every corner, as if the very air had grown weary of witnessing suffering.

Faint rays of scattered sunlight, weak and trembling, trickled through the dirty, cracked window panes, casting fractured, ghostly beams across the motionless figure slumped in the center—a woman bound in shackles, her spirit as broken as the light that touched her.

Her loose white robes, once a symbol of purity and grace, now hung dirtied and torn, clinging feebly to her curvy frame, the fabric unable to hide the bruises that marred her once flawless skin, each mark a testament to the brutality she could no longer escape.

The Vitalist.

That was the name the world had once whispered in awe—the Saint of Life, the Miracle Healer, the One Who Could Mend Any Wound, a beacon of hope whose hands had stitched together the broken bodies of heroes in their darkest hours.

But here, in this cold, lifeless prison, where the chill gnawed at her bones and the silence pressed like a blade against her throat, she was nothing more than a tool—a puppet bound in chains, forced to heal monsters who deserved only death.

Her white hair cascaded over her shoulders in a tangled, disheveled mess, strands falling like a shroud to obscure the hollow, desolate look in her silver-gray eyes, eyes that had once sparkled with compassion but now reflected only the void of her captivity.

A metal gag was strapped cruelly across her mouth, its cold edges biting into her flesh, preventing her from doing what she longed to do most in the depths of her shattered soul.

To bite her tongue, to let the blood flow and end this nightmare forever.

To end it all, to slip into the merciful embrace of oblivion where no villain could demand her gift, where no screams could pierce her heart.

But they wouldn't let her, their vigilance as relentless as the chains that held her.

She had tried so many times, each attempt thwarted by their watchful eyes, each failure driving the despair deeper into her marrow until it became a part of her.

The metal shackles binding her wrists and ankles, heavy and unyielding, rattled faintly as she shifted her aching body, the sound a pitiful whisper in the oppressive silence of her isolation, a reminder that she could not fight, could not heal herself, could only exist—her power no longer a gift, but a curse that chained her to this hell.

Then—the door creaked open, a slow, groaning sound that sliced through the stillness like a blade through flesh.

A gust of cold air brushed against her bruised skin, sharp and unwelcome, as a figure stepped inside, his presence filling the room with a casual menace that made her stomach twist.

A man with golden-blond hair, his silhouette framed by the dim light, exuded an arrogance that radiated from the smirk curling his lips—a smirk that promised cruelty as easily as it mocked her pain.

Behind him, another man followed, his arms burdened with something—no, someone, a limp form that dangled like a broken doll.

The body of an injured man.

A villain.

The Vitalist recognized him instantly, her heart sinking as the weight of his identity settled over her like a shroud.

S-Class.

His name was irrelevant, lost to her in the fog of exhaustion, but his power was unmistakable—a force that had slaughtered countless heroes, leaving behind a trail of carnage, a legacy carved into the world with blood and destruction, a monster who thrived on the ruin of everything she'd once stood for.

Her body stiffened, every muscle tensing as the realization of their intent crashed over her like a tidal wave.

The moment she understood what they demanded of her, her head shook—a weak, barely noticeable refusal, a silent plea that she knew would be ignored, as it always was.

The blond man's smirk twitched, a flicker of irritation passing through his smug eyes as he crouched before her, tilting his head so that golden strands of hair fell carelessly into his gaze, his mockery a blade twisting in her chest.

"Ah, don't do this, Saint," he said, his voice mockingly soft, dripping with a false gentleness that belied the venom beneath, "every time, you pull this little stunt, acting like you've got a choice—you know how this ends, don't you?"

She didn't respond.

Couldn't, the gag silencing her defiance, her rage, her grief.

He sighed, a theatrical sound, standing up as he flicked his fingers lazily, as if her suffering were a minor inconvenience to his day.

The door opened again, its groan a harbinger of worse to come.

Another villain entered, dragging a bound figure behind him—a hero, his body jerking against the ropes that held him, his desperation palpable even from across the room.

The Vitalist's heart clenched, a sharp, agonizing twist as she took in the sight of the captive.

The hero was young, barely in his twenties, his B-class rank badge glinting faintly through the sweat and blood that drenched it, his wild, fear-filled eyes darting beneath a gag that muffled his cries into pitiful whimpers.

The blond villain's smirk widened, a predator's grin as he reveled in her anguish.

"Here's the deal, Saint," he drawled, his tone lazy yet edged with malice, "heal him—" he nudged the injured S-class villain at her feet with the toe of his boot, a casual gesture that belied the threat, "—or we play with him," gesturing toward the struggling B-class hero with a flick of his wrist.

Her shackles loosened, the metal clanking as they fell slack, giving her just enough freedom to act.

They wanted her to choose, to weigh the life of a monster against the torment of an innocent, to force her hands to serve their evil once more.

She didn't want to do this, every fiber of her being rebelled, screaming in disgust at the thought of saving a killer when she should be fighting these monsters, tearing them apart with the fury they deserved.

But the pleading eyes of the captured hero, wide and desperate, dug into her soul, crushing what little resolve she had left beneath the weight of his terror.

Her fists tightened, nails biting into her palms until blood welled, a silent protest against her own powerlessness.

Then, with a heaviness that threatened to break her entirely, she did the only thing she could do, the thing they'd forced her to do time and again.

She knelt beside the villain, her knees pressing into the cold stone, and placed her soft, glowing hands over his wounds, beginning to heal, her touch a betrayal of everything she'd ever believed in.