The Hero Returns with his Yandere Wife-Chapter 24 - 23

The Vitalist shivered as the man approached, her frail body trembling beneath the tattered remnants of her white robes, a visceral reaction she couldn't suppress despite the exhaustion that weighed her down like a shroud.

Her silver-gray eyes, dulled by months of torment, darted upward to the towering figure cloaked in blood and fire, his dark eyes sharp as if cut from obsidian, piercing through the dimness of her prison with an intensity that felt both terrifying and alive, a stark contrast to the lifeless void she'd drowned in for so long.

Every step he took sent an involuntary tremor down her spine, the stone floor groaning faintly beneath his weight, each thud a reminder of the power he carried, a power that seemed to hum in the air around him, raw and uncontainable.

Who was he?

What monster had they brought her this time, another beast in human skin to demand her cursed gift, to force her hands to mend flesh that deserved only to rot?

She had spent months shackled in this hell, forced to heal villains one after another, their wounds nothing but scars of destruction they would wield again and again—stitching torn flesh, mending shattered bones, only for them to rise and butcher the innocent with the strength she'd restored, each act a betrayal that gnawed at her soul until it was little more than a hollow shell.

And now, another one stood before her, his presence overwhelming, his silence deafening.

Her fingers curled into fists, nails biting into her palms so hard that blood began to trickle between her fingers, warm and sticky, a silent rebellion against the inevitable, a desperate vow that she couldn't—she wouldn't—bend to their will again.

But then she remembered, the memory crashing over her like a wave of jagged glass.

The B-class hero's screams, raw and piercing, echoing through this very room as they'd tortured him for her defiance.

The severed hand flung at her feet, its lifeless fingers splayed in a grotesque mockery of surrender, blood pooling beneath it like an accusation she couldn't escape.

The blond villain's mocking laughter, a sound that had clawed its way into her nightmares, taunting her with every refusal, every flicker of resistance she dared to show.

A fresh wave of nausea rolled through her, bitter and choking, and her clenched fists loosened, the fight draining from her as the weight of that memory crushed her resolve into dust.

What choice did she have, when every act of rebellion only brought more pain to those she longed to protect?

Her gaze dropped to the limp body in his arms, drawn irresistibly to the figure he carried with a gentleness that clashed with his fierce exterior.

And then—her breath hitched, catching in her throat as recognition struck her like a blow, sharp and disorienting.

She knew that face.

Elena Voss.

The world had once called her Iron Pulse, a name whispered in awe across battlefields and safehouses alike—an S-class superhero, a legend whose iron will and unrelenting strength had toppled villains who thought themselves invincible, a warrior whose very existence had been a beacon in the dark.

Dead.

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Or at least, she was supposed to be, her name etched into the annals of fallen heroes, a casualty of a war that spared no one, not even the mightiest.

The Vitalist's body trembled, a violent shudder that rattled her chains, a mix of shock and disbelief clouding her thoughts as she struggled to reconcile the lifeless form before her with the titan she'd heard tales of.

She lifted her eyes again, searching his face for any sign of deception, any hint of the cruel games she'd come to expect from her captors.

But the man holding Elena wasn't laughing, his features devoid of the gloating smirk she'd grown to dread, nor was he demanding she heal some villain with the cold indifference of those who'd come before.

Instead, his voice came calm and steady, cutting through the fog of her confusion with a clarity that startled her.

"Can you heal her?" he asked, his tone devoid of threat, carrying only a quiet urgency that seemed to hang in the air between them.

The Vitalist nodded immediately, a reflex born not of coercion but of a longing she hadn't felt in months, a flicker of purpose igniting within her.

For the first time in so long, she didn't have to be forced, didn't have to be threatened with blood and screams to wield her gift—she wanted to do this, needed to do it, as if healing Elena could somehow cleanse the stain of all the monsters she'd been made to save.

If she had to heal another villain, she felt like her hands would rot, the corruption of their blood seeping into her soul until nothing pure remained, but this—this was different, this was right. This was what she was born to do.

The man studied her reaction for a moment, his dark eyes narrowing slightly as if weighing her intent, before he spoke again, his voice softer now, probing.

"Do you know her?"

Her voice was hoarse, unused for days, a rasp that scraped against her throat, but she forced the words out, reciting Elena's name and legacy as if reading from a sacred text she'd memorized in secret—"Elena Voss, Iron Pulse, S-class, the unbreakable shield of Argon City, who faced down the Crimson Syndicate alone and walked away victorious, a hero who never faltered..."—her words a tribute, a desperate honor to a fallen legend.

The man cut her off before she could finish, his tone brusque but not unkind.

"Okay, enough."

He knelt down with a careful grace that belied his blood-soaked appearance, laying Elena gently onto the cold, unforgiving floor, his hands lingering for a moment as if reluctant to let her go.

Then, before the Vitalist could react, he turned to her chains, his movements swift and decisive.

"This might hurt," he warned, his voice low and steady, before gripping one of the heavy iron shackles around her wrist with a hand that seemed to radiate heat even through the air.

Heat flared, sudden and searing, and she gasped as the metal melted like wax under his touch, dripping onto the stone floor in molten puddles that hissed and smoked, the acrid scent of burning iron filling her lungs.

In a swift, almost effortless motion, he tore the remaining shackles apart, the clanking of metal hitting the ground echoing through the room like a thunderclap, a sound of freedom she hadn't dared to dream of.

She was free.

And yet, her body did not move, frozen by the shock of it, her mind reeling as the weight of her chains—physical and otherwise—fell away.

Her knees buckled instantly, her legs too weak to hold her after months of captivity, and she began to fall—but he caught her, his strong hands wrapping around her before she could collapse completely, steadying her with a firmness that felt both foreign and safe.

"Oh, careful," he said, his voice lighter now, less rigid, a trace of warmth breaking through the steel as he helped her sit beside Elena, easing her down with a care that left her breathless.