CHAPTER 29: THE SHAPE OF JEALOUSY

Cassel — POV

After realizing that the front gate was no longer suitable for passage, we wandered the long way around, circling the massive hospital building.

We walked in a single line, our hands interlocked, and after a short while, our path intersected with a few zombies.

It was a good opportunity to test whether Rosalia’s ability could conceal this many people. And, as expected, when we stood still—our hands gripping our weapons, every nerve alert for any sign of movement or attack—we weren’t attacked at all.

Not only that, but the zombies sniffed the air for a couple of seconds before continuing on their way, their movements nothing like those of any human being.

In any case, they passed right by us and walked around without even noticing we were there.

Yet, there wasn’t a single trace of joy in my heart or on my face after this discovery.

Why?

Because my mind was somewhere else.

I was thinking about what had happened earlier.

Thinking about Rosalia. Thinking about Henry.

And thinking about the way Rosalia looked at Henry.

Yes, I was still angry about that moment.

At first, I didn’t understand why I was so angry, but I’m not foolish. After some thought, I finally figured out the reason.

But that realization only made things worse.

Because the conclusion I reached after analyzing everything—

The reason behind that fierce, suffocating rage—

It was none other than jealousy.

Yes.

Jealousy.

I still can’t believe that I, Cassel Zancroft, am feeling jealous.

The word itself feels foreign to me, something I’ve never allowed to take root. I’ve seen envy destroy men, twist their reason, make them reckless. And yet here I am, feeling it coil like smoke inside my chest.

When I saw that look of admiration lighting up her beautiful face, anger—raw and violent—stirred beneath my ribs. It wasn’t just anger, though. It was something uglier, darker... the kind of emotion that claws its way out from the depths of a man’s pride and leaves behind a burn that reason can’t soothe.

How could she look at him—Henry, of all people—with such respect and awe?

Didn’t they always argue the moment they saw each other? I could’ve sworn they couldn’t stand being in the same room for more than five minutes without trading insults.

And yet... There it was. That spark in her eyes, that soft curve of her lips.

A look that should’ve been mine to earn.

Hiding the irritation spreading through me like wildfire, I forced my attention forward, my gaze drifting toward the girl walking silently beside me.

Today she wore blue.

Royal blue, deep and calm, yet bright enough to catch the dim light filtering through the ash-colored sky. It clung to her lightly, fluttering with every cautious step.

I’ve always preferred red—bold, unflinching—

But I still love blue. That royal shade of blue was one of the few colors I never refused to look at... or to wear.

Damn it, the color suited her. That particular shade made her seem almost untouchable.

Does that mean she even matches my preferences now?

It must be so.

Yes... definitely.

I’ve seen the way she looks at me, and I’m not so oblivious as to misunderstand what that gaze means.

It’s clear she admires me—no, perhaps what she feels runs deeper than simple admiration.

From the very beginning, her eyes sought only me.

That beautiful girl who somehow blends strength and softness in a way that makes it impossible to ignore her presence.

Rosalia—despite the solid front she puts on—she’s still just a girl. Anyone looking at her from afar might think she’s composed, brave even. But if you looked closer—really looked—you’d see it. The fragility trembling beneath that steel exterior.

Probably someone who’s never truly seen death up close before.

Not the kind that stains your soul.

Her face seemed calm as we made our way down the street littered with corpses, the air thick with decay and old blood. The scent was suffocating; the wind carried the faint groans of the dead, and the world around us felt carved out of silence and fear.

And yet... her lips, pressed together too tightly, trembled from time to time. Her pupils darted back and forth, scanning every shadow. Even the hand that held my sleeve—small, pale, trembling—betrayed her.

Yes. She’s still just a child.

Maybe that’s why she fell for Henry’s charming smile and his damn silver tongue.

It’s not her fault.

It’s his.

That damned flirt.

I glanced at him from the corner of my eye.

If Henry weren’t an old friend—if he weren’t one of my most capable men—I might have knocked him out right then and there. The thought of his grin directed at her made something primal twist inside me.

How dare he toy with a simple, innocent girl like Rosalia?

"Boss, is there something on my face?" Henry asked suddenly, his usual grin slipping just a little. His tone was casual, but I could see the flicker of unease behind his eyes.

I nearly told him, Yeah. My fist is about to be on it, you sly bastard.

But instead, I just muttered, "Nothing. Let’s move. The entrance is just ahead."

He nodded and turned back, unfazed, while I clenched my jaw.

"Sure thing, boss. By the way—Rosalia’s power is insane! I mean, look at us—we’re strolling through a horde of zombies, chatting like it’s a walk in the park, and those dumb corpses don’t even notice us!"

His voice was light, joking, far too loud for the situation.

Then came Frederick’s voice—always too eager for his own good. "Exactly! Hey, Rosalia! How about we swap powers for a bit, huh? I swear mine’s not worse than yours!"

Frederick grinned, his eyes gleaming with excitement. Earlier, he looked like he’d rather die than hold Henry’s hand for the sake of formation, but five minutes of safely walking through hundreds of undead had changed his tune. Now, he looked as if this deadly walk was some adventure.

Rosalia only smiled faintly.