I settled into Levi’s high-backed leather chair, the twin monitors casting a cool glow across the windowless space. I pulled the labeled boxes closer, their cardboard rough against my fingertips, and began to read, one file at a time, determined to finally navigate the labyrinth of his documented life.

The genesis of his grand design, I already knew, traced back to his fifteenth year, to the senseless loss of his sister. A simple cold, amplified into a fatal illness by the cruel legacy of inbreeding that permeated the noble lines. His initial, almost naive reaction, wasn’t the wholesale destruction of the aristocracy, but a more measured approach: allowing the recognition of illegitimate heirs, permitting marriages with commoners – a gradual dilution of the tainted gene pool. Each proposal, each carefully reasoned plea, had been met with the same unyielding wall of tradition and self-preservation.

From there, the familiar narrative unfolded. His arranged marriage to Julia, a strategic alliance orchestrated by his ruthlessly ambitious mother, Cybil, and Julia’s equally power-hungry father. It was a calculated maneuver to position their families for a potential grab at the throne. Levi, bound by a complicated mix of resentment towards his mother and a lingering respect for his deceased father, had chosen a different path. With Julia’s complicit aid, he had systematically bankrupted his father’s company, severing a crucial financial artery for the conspiring families. Julia’s price for this collaboration was equally dark: liberation from her abusive father. Levi, with his usual pragmatic approach, had ensured that Julia’s father never emerged from his coma. A grim bargain, sealed in mutual resentment and a shared desire for control.

But then came the part of the story shrouded in shadows, the path not taken. For a time, Levi had actually considered seizing the throne himself. If his and his family’s treasonous actions were exposed, the consequences would be catastrophic: banishment, the stripping of titles, the monarch’s iron grip closing on their vast assets. So, the young Levi had briefly entertained the notion of feigning allegiance to Cybil – playing the role of a co-conspirator to gain their trust, to be seen as a player. His ultimate aim, however, was to betray them to the King, a move that would simultaneously free him from the suffocating weight of his own noble title. This calculated dance, was the true motivation behind his seemingly cordial interactions with the King – a way to deflect suspicion while simultaneously positioning himself for a potential fall from grace, perhaps even imprisonment, as a means of escape.

The sheer audacity of the plan, the layers of manipulation even at that young age, sent a shiver down my spine. This was the Levi I knew, the master strategist, always several steps ahead, even when contemplating his own downfall.

The next set of files detailed the arduous three-year process of Levi and Julia's divorce, a legal battlefield fraught with the archaic and deliberately obstructive laws. The mandatory year-long cooling-off period, the intricate division of vast assets, and the societal implications of dissolving such prominent titles – a ducal heir and a marchioness – all contributed to the protracted struggle. Looming over it all were the formidable figures of Cybil and Levi’s grandfather, The Conqueror. The sadistic old monster, the files noted with chilling matter-of-factness, had resorted to physical threats against lawyers and anyone perceived as facilitating the separation. Yet, Levi and Julia, united by their shared long-term goals, navigated the legal quagmire with a grim determination. Their mutual complicity in the divorce ultimately streamlined the finalization, with Julia waiving any claim to alimony.

The files then shifted to the period preceding the divorce, a time when the young Levi, barely twenty and lacking the political leverage to sway influential noblewomen to his cause, had resorted to a calculated and deeply uncomfortable tactic: exploiting their advances for information. Two instances, starkly documented, of no-strings-attached encounters with noblewomen seeking his attention. Both involved protected sex, a non-negotiable boundary for Levi. However, the second woman, desperate for an heir to her family's title – a lineage plagued by decades of infertility due to inbreeding, sterile noblemen, and the tragic consequences of damaged reproductive material – had repeatedly begged him for a child. This desperation had triggered a warning signal in Levi's ever-calculating mind. He sensed a hidden agenda. As a precaution, he had taken his own measures to ensure contraception. During their encounter, as Levi had anticipated, the woman had attempted to force him to forgo the condom. Levi, had complied, knowing that this uncomfortable act was the key to unlocking the information he sought. A wave of nausea washed over me as I read his clinical recounting of the event. The files noted that Levi had vomited violently afterwards. It was in that moment, he had written, that a profound realization had solidified within him: this way of operating, this constant compromise and exploitation, was unsustainable. He needed a fundamental shift in the power structure, a vacuum that would render such distasteful maneuvering obsolete. And thus, the genesis of the plan we all knew, the audacious and irreversible act of sterilizing the late King, was conceived.

I moved past the familiar details of the King's sterilization, the memory still vivid from my reading days prior, and focused on the emergence of a key player in Levi's intricate game: the Duchess, Lady Isolde.

Their arrangement, was straightforward yet mutually beneficial. Levi would facilitate Isolde's desired divorce to her cousin, and in return, Isolde would serve as his eyes and ears within the secretive inner circles of the aristocracy, whispering invaluable intelligence his way. The files detailed Levi's orchestration of Isolde's marital history, revealing his hand in dissolving two marriages and sabotaging three engagements. His methods, while pragmatic, were far from conventional. To dismantle the marriages, where Isolde's husbands were indeed engaging in blatant infidelity, Levi had employed a network of mistresses and sex workers. Their documented testimonies, detailing the husbands' indiscretions, were presented to the court. While noblemen's dalliances were generally tolerated and not grounds for divorce, Levi and Isolde had astutely identified a loophole: the husbands' extramarital activities could be framed as a failure to prioritize securing an heir for the Duchess, a blatant disregard for their primary duty.

It was a blatant manipulation of the truth, for the files explicitly stated that Lady Isolde was infertile. Not naturally so, but by design. Born with defective eggs and having endured multiple miscarriages, Isolde desired permanent infertility. Levi, had assisted her with both the painful miscarriages and the subsequent procedure rendering her permanently unable to conceive.

A chillingly insightful passage followed, where Levi explicitly stated that this collaboration with Isolde had solidified a crucial understanding: the ease with which an entire system could be dismantled by targeting its fundamental principle – inheritance.

No heirs, no nobility.

The inbreeding that plagued their society had already laid the groundwork, creating a landscape of compromised fertility and genetic vulnerabilities. Levi's role, then, became one of discreet facilitation. His subsequent strategy involved discreetly assisting other noblewomen with miscarriages and abortions, always with their explicit consent and unwavering secrecy. These women, trapped in a patriarchal system, desperately needed to conceal their pregnancies and their terminations from their partners and fathers. A silent understanding bound them together: the children born within these inbred lines were overwhelmingly likely to be severely disabled or stillborn. And even in the rare instance of a healthy child, these mothers were unwilling to condemn their offspring to the inevitable cycle of abuse, torment, and atrocity that defined their existence.

Then, the files turned to the volatile and deeply personal matter of Cybil. The handwriting, usually so precise and controlled, was marred by angry smudges of ink, betraying a rare surge of emotion as Levi documented her banishment to the island. This island, an ancient noble cemetery, had been a peculiar “wedding gift” from the King upon Levi’s marriage to Julia, a detail that likely added another layer of bitter irony to the situation.

Following this, the narrative detailed a reckless act of defiance fueled by Julia’s own simmering rage. Weary of the poisonous whispers that slithered through noble circles, the constant insinuations about her “barrenness” and “infertility,” Julia had declared to Levi, in an alcohol-tinged moment of audacious anger, that she would stage a pregnancy to silence them. A visible bump, a public announcement, followed by a carefully orchestrated “miscarriage.” Levi had seized upon this idea. A public miscarriage would provide the perfect cover to reach even more noblewomen with his discreet offers of assistance.

And so, these unlikely terrorist cousins put their plan into motion. It worked with chilling efficiency. The noble families and the monarch, desperate to see the dwindling lines of nobility continue, offered their effusive congratulations. But Levi and Julia used this very support as a strategic tool. With whispers, they confided their anxieties about the pregnancy to every single noblewoman they encountered. The response was overwhelmingly sympathetic. Nearly all of them, especially the younger generation, carried the silent scars of painful miscarriages or stillborn births. Julia and Levi also leveraged this fabricated tragedy to expedite their own divorce. Levi’s notes recounted the necessity of downing an entire bottle of scotch before facing the court, steeling himself to utter the calculated words to the judges: that his wife could not produce an heir, could not fulfill her duty, and therefore, he wished for a dissolution of their marriage.

The aftermath of the divorce saw Cybil unleash her fury upon both Julia and Levi. It was through the intensity of her lashing out that they recognized the true extent of her ambition. Cybil, they realized, was actively plotting to dethrone the King, a move that would throw a catastrophic wrench into their plans. Her attempts to marry Levi off to another politically advantageous noblewoman further solidified their resolve. A decision was made, to neutralize her influence, to at least sever her network of noble allies. One day, Julia, slipped a sleeping draught into Cybil’s drink. The following morning, Levi, with a boat, twenty silent servants, and a butler, transported his own mother to the desolate island, a place beyond the reach of any cellular signal, effectively severing her connection to the world she so desperately sought to control.

With his divorce finalized, the shackles of his unwanted marriage finally shed, Levi stood in a position of considerable power. No longer a callow youth, he had amassed a personal fortune that dwarfed even the King’s coffers. It was during this period that his carefully cultivated persona as the “Saint of Ascaria” began to truly blossom, his extensive charitable endeavors earning him a title bestowed not by the nobility, but by the grateful citizens themselves. Yet, to further solidify his control and gather crucial intelligence from within the palace walls, he needed a new kind of leverage.

The King, a man of voracious appetites, maintained a court teeming with over ten favorites and concubines. Among them, Cassiel, a man of considerable wealth and influence within the artistic circles Levi frequented, stood out. Their relationship was a complex tapestry woven with rivalry and a shared passion for the arts. Crucially, Cassiel harbored a deep-seated resentment towards the King, a bitterness stemming from the monarch’s reckless disregard for his partners’ health, leaving a trail of STDs in his wake while stubbornly refusing to use any protection. When this information reached Levi, the gears in his mind began to turn.

Ever the astute observer of human vulnerabilities, Levi, recognized an opportunity. He approached Cassiel with a proposition: Cassiel would become his nocturnal informant within the palace, providing invaluable intelligence on the King’s activities and the inner workings of the court. In return, Levi would subtly manipulate the King’s emotional state, ensuring he was either melancholic, emotionally fragile, or consumed by sorrow whenever Cassiel sought his company. Cassiel, in turn, would ply the emotionally vulnerable King with alcohol, further diminishing his capacity for state affairs. This unholy alliance proved remarkably effective in rendering the King a virtual nonentity in the realm’s governance.

With the King effectively neutralized and the Queen deceased, the reins of power had fallen to the noble council and the senate.

While the senate held less inherent authority, its structure made it far more amenable to legislative progress. Levi, with his vast resources, funded and championed numerous bills within the senate, focusing on societal reforms: the legalization of gay marriage, comprehensive disability acts, and progressive maternity and paternity leave policies, among dozens of others. The noble council, however, remained largely inert, entrenched in their privilege and resistant to any meaningful change. Knowing that these ten noblemen who comprised the council were, by and large, abusive individuals, Levi meticulously gathered irrefutable evidence of their various crimes and transgressions. His long-term strategy hinged on the King’s eventual demise. On that day, he would leverage this damning evidence to pressure the senate into dissolving the bill that granted the nobility their centuries-old immunity from legal prosecution. With that crucial barrier removed, the senate would then be empowered to seize the vast and often ill-gotten assets of the nobility. Levi had already forged a tacit agreement with key figures within the senate: as the widely revered Saint of Ascaria, the head of the kingdom’s largest and most impactful charity foundation, the seized assets would be explicitly dedicated to charitable causes, directly benefiting the commoners, the long-suffering servants, the exploited sex workers, the neglected mistresses, and the countless illegitimate children who had endured the cruelty of the nobility.

But then, the carefully orchestrated timeline veered sharply off course. The King’s demise arrived months ahead of Levi’s calculated projections. Traditionally, the Royal physicians were drawn from the prestigious Royal Academia. However, with his characteristic subtle manipulation, Levi had convinced the increasingly paranoid King to instead station his own trusted doctors, handpicked from Levi’s own medical academy, within the royal chambers. According to Levi’s notes, he never once interfered with the King’s prescribed medications. His sole intention was to glean precise, up-to-the-minute information about the King’s deteriorating health from his own physicians. The prognosis was grim: with advanced leukemia, debilitating gout, and a cocktail of STDs ravaging his system, the King had, at best, six months left to live.

With this knowledge, Levi had gathered every piece of incriminating evidence against the corrupt noble council, ensuring no crime would go unpunished. With the support of the senate and the growing unrest among the commoners, he had patiently awaited the inevitable. He had acquired detailed blueprints of the noble mansions, eliminating any potential escape routes through hidden tunnels or secret vaults. Everything was in place. The stage was set. All that remained was the tedious bureaucratic process of paperwork for both Levi and the senate as they laid the groundwork for the promised democracy.

The King’s death occurred just as Levi arrived at the palace, intending simply to inform the council of the impending shift in power, to command their obedience to the coming democratic reforms. It was, according to Levi’s private notes, a genuine miscalculation on his part. He had fully anticipated having another six months to solidify his plans. But fate, it seemed, had presented an unexpected opportunity. Levi seized the moment. He gathered the stunned and bewildered council, laid bare the irrefutable evidence of their heinous crimes, and had them summarily dragged to the awaiting jails. The senate, emboldened by the King’s death and the overwhelming public sentiment, swiftly dissolved the centuries-old bill of noble immunity.

Now, the King was dead, the dissolution of the nobility was underway, and the royal line had no legitimate heirs. In his private writings, a recurring theme emerged: Levi’s repeated assertion that he had not anticipated the King’s early demise. He had been accelerating his plans, eager to finally bring this long and arduous undertaking to its conclusion and, finally, spend some time with… me.

He had been pushing forward, driven by a desire to finally… be with me. And my reaction? Terror. The memory of that council room slammed into me with visceral force. The air thick with fear, the bravado of those powerful men dissolving into whimpers, their faces contorted in primal terror under Levi’s effortless, terrifying dominance. I had seen him then, stripped bare of the charming facade, the benevolent saint. I had seen the power he wielded, the kind that could break men with a word, with a glance.

My body remembered the trauma even now. The bile rising in my throat in that chamber, the uncontrollable retching that followed. And then, the sheer panic that seized me when he had tried to touch me, the phantom sensation of my skin burning under his hand. No. I wouldn’t shoulder the blame for that. My flight, that desperate scramble for safety, had been a primal response to genuine fear.

Those first weeks in the relative sanctuary of my beach house, hours away from the capital, had been a blur of anxiety and hypervigilance. Every shadow seemed to hold his presence, every unexpected sound sent my heart racing. It had taken weeks for the constant knot of fear in my stomach to even begin to loosen.

But now… now, after delving into the intricate labyrinth of his mind, witnessing the genesis of his plans, the motivations behind his often-unsettling actions… a different picture was emerging. His actions, however morally ambiguous, were driven by a deeply rooted desire for change, a twisted form of justice born from personal tragedy and a profound understanding of the systemic rot within their society.

Maybe… if I hadn't witnessed that display of power, that terrifying ease with which he commanded absolute obedience, reducing those powerful men to quivering wrecks… maybe I wouldn't have run. Maybe I could have reconciled the gentle, surprisingly caring man I knew in private with the ruthless force I saw unleashed that day.

But I did see it. And I did run. Now, sifting through the meticulous details of his past, understanding the motivations behind his actions, seeing the layers beneath the terrifying surface… He isn't a monster, not in the simplistic, sadistic way my fear had painted him months ago. He's… complex. Driven. Capable of both surprising tenderness and breathtaking ruthlessness.

The final file felt different in my hands. The visceral terror that had clung to me since witnessing Levi's power in the council room had receded. The distance, the forced separation, and the relentless honesty of his documented past had somehow cauterized that wound. I wasn't scared of him anymore. He was undeniably manipulative, a master strategist with a chillingly pragmatic approach, but the truth was, he had never intentionally harmed me.

These last notes were deeply personal, penned after the seismic shift of the nobility's dissolution. He hadn't anticipated my terror, he wrote. His intention had been to share his triumph, to show me the culmination of his long and arduous plan. Now that our contractual marriage had served its purpose, he was prepared to grant me the divorce I likely desired. Yet, a wistful tone crept into his words – a simple wish that we could finally be free from the performative aspects of our union: the forced smiles at charity galas, the staged dinners under the relentless glare of paparazzi.

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on NovelBin. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

He recounted my departure, the sudden void it had left in our home. Finn had stayed on for a long while, diligently laying the groundwork for the nascent democracy. Levi admitted to a disquieting sense of distress at the sight of the empty space on the couch beside him. He had wanted to reach out, but respecting my fear, he had held back, immersing himself in the demanding work of the fledgling government for three long months. The desire to connect, at least to finalize the divorce and offer an apology – a logical necessity given the archaic laws that still mandated a year-long cooling-off period – had been a constant undercurrent.

Then, Finn had intervened, offering to speak with me first. Levi's expectations were low; he sought only to apologize, acknowledging the logical necessity of it even if he didn't experience conventional guilt for my fear. But my response had been… unexpected. A proposal of marriage.

His anger, as documented in his notes, was sharp and immediate. He perceived my proposal as a fundamental misunderstanding, a sign that I still saw him as a monster, failing to grasp his neurodivergent way of experiencing the world. He deemed my offer "illogical."

But then, the turning point. My offer for him to shed the Blake name, to take my family name, Everett. That resonated. Even he couldn't deny the undeniable pull between us. Yet, labeling his feelings remained a perplexing challenge. It wasn't love, not in the conventional sense. Obsession felt too simplistic, too inaccurate. Reducing it to mere sexual desire felt equally inadequate.

Then, nestled amongst the other files, a stark black one caught my eye. As I opened it, the script detailed the genesis of our sham marriage. The idea, it turned out, had been Holden's, inspired by a politician from another country who had publicly embraced a same-sex relationship before legalizing such unions. For Levi, who had already pushed through the legalisation of gay marriage, this public act served a dual purpose: to portray him as progressive, a contrast to the entrenched conservatism of the nobility, and to strategically relinquish his position as heir to the dukedom. Marrying a commoner, especially a man, would effectively disqualify him from inheriting the ducal responsibilities, allowing him to sever those ties without direct confrontation.

Initially, their search for a groom had focused on finding someone with a certain public appeal – perhaps a model or an actor with a striking face – who could serve as a beacon of hope for the populace. The "temper" they sought was purely for the groom's protection, a necessary shield against the inevitable backlash from the scorned nobility and Levi's own family. After an eight-month search, they had found me. My "comforting features" had made me a contender, but it wasn't enough. Then, a seemingly insignificant coincidence had sealed my fate. Levi had seen me on a break room television, the silent images capturing the rapt attention of everyone in the room, their gazes fixed on me. That, combined with my status as a commoner and an openly gay man, had made me the chosen candidate. Their initial approach had been purely transactional: a substantial paycheck and promises of career opportunities, an attempt to buy my compliance.

Upon moving in together, Levi's expectations were clear: I would indulge in his wealth, live a life of carefree extravagance. In fact, it seemed to be his subtle rebellion, the heir to a dukedom embracing a "troublemaker" groom. But my indifference to both money and influence intrigued him. He had observed my clumsy attempts to decipher the code to his study, a flicker of curiosity. He was aware of my underlying fear, but a detached curiosity drove him to observe how my fear might dissipate under his carefully cultivated kindness. My drunken outburst, my instinctive attempt to shield him from his mother's venom – those moments had sparked a flicker of something akin to… hope? A possibility that I might accept him, truly see him. My tearful reaction to his confession hadn't surprised him. What had, however, was my subsequent promise: I would read psychology books, I would try to understand him. That, it seemed, had been a variable he hadn't accounted for.

...

The cardboard of the file box scraped softly against the shelf as I returned it to its place. A sigh escaped my lips, a mixture of exhaustion and a strange, burgeoning empathy. "Oh, Levi," I murmured into the quiet room, the twin monitors reflecting in my widened eyes. "You lonely bastard. You sad, lonely, isolated asshole."

This deep dive into the labyrinth of his meticulously documented life... Stripped bare of the terrifying power he wielded in public, I saw the vulnerable core beneath the layers of strategy and manipulation. The boy who lost his sister, the young man trapped in a loveless marriage, the brilliant mind constantly calculating, always a step removed. Loneliness seemed to cling to him like a shroud.

If Levi had simply approached me, without the strategic framework of a sham marriage… if he had expressed a genuine, albeit perhaps awkward and logically presented, romantic interest… would I have been open to it? The honest answer, was yes. But it would have been a slow burn, a cautious exploration across the vast gulf of our different worlds. It would have taken time, patience, and a significant amount of trust-building.

Hours had bled into one another within the silent confines of Levi's study, the twin monitors casting a perpetual cool glow. File after file, his life unfolded in meticulous detail – strategic alliances, calculated risks, the cold, hard logic underpinning every decision. Yet, amidst this exhaustive documentation, an absence stared back at me: personal connection. Not a single relationship built on the messy, unpredictable terrain of genuine feeling. Everything was transactional, a carefully weighed exchange of benefits. Even his encounters with those noblewomen were recounted with detachment, devoid of any hint of attraction or personal investment. It was purely a means to an end.

A realization, sharp and slightly heartbreaking, pierced through the fog of information. Even now, a thirty-year-old man, Levi still hadn't deciphered the labyrinth of his own sexuality. There was no history of dating, no mention of attraction. A naive part of me had perhaps imagined a fleeting encounter, a stolen kiss, something that wasn't dictated by strategy.

Gods… what a profoundly lonely existence. Had there never been a flicker of genuine desire, a moment of longing for someone beyond the transactional? The silence of the files was a deafening answer. He was a lonely asshole, yes, but now, the loneliness seemed to eclipse the "asshole" in a way I hadn't anticipated.

The sheer paradox of it. A world-changer, utterly alone in the world he reshaped.

Why?

It wasn't as if he was lacking. Nature and circumstance had gifted him an arsenal of desirable traits: a compelling attractiveness, a razor-sharp intelligence that could dissect nations, an undeniable allure that drew people into his orbit, a dry, sardonic humor that could unexpectedly disarm, a wealth that could buy kingdoms, and a power that could reshape them. He possessed everything the world typically deemed necessary for connection.

So why the desolate solitude? Perhaps it was the relentless drive, the all-consuming focus on his grand design. Maybe, after the strategic failure of his first marriage, he had simply dismissed the possibility of genuine connection altogether. Or was it the ingrained arrogance, the towering ego that subtly whispered he was above the need for companionship, coupled with a deep-seated distrust of the fickle and often irrational nature of humanity?

Perhaps he had simply resigned himself to a solitary existence, accepting that death would be his only true companion. Or maybe, a more heartbreaking possibility, he believed himself inherently unlovable, convinced that no one could truly accept the intricate, often contradictory, tapestry of his being, so he never dared to ask for that acceptance.

A sense of justice, however twisted, might have led him to believe that pursuing intimacy would be inherently unfair.

Who knew the intricate pathways of that mind?

His charm, that carefully cultivated allure that could sway senators and disarm adversaries… it screamed of a man who should have at least dabbled in the messy world of physical intimacy. Yet, the files revealed nothing. No casual encounters, no fleeting affairs, no documented exploration of physical desire outside the cold calculus of information gathering. Why? How could a man with such potent magnetism exist in such a state of apparent sexual… inertia?

I almost wished that, as his husband, he had at least one goddamn ex-girlfriend, or boyfriend, or casual sex partner, or even a long-forgotten high school sweetheart. Just one.

It's a bizarre inversion, I know. In most situations, one ex-partner can feel like a poisoned dart, a constant shadow of comparison. Ten partners? Who cares; it speaks of moving on. But with Levi… the utter void is deafening.

One. Just one solitary, non-transactional human connection. No wonder it had taken the seismic upheaval of a twelve-year opioid addiction, the introspective crucible of a midlife crisis in rehab, for him to finally utter that hesitant desire: "it would...nice" to have pets. Pets. A creature incapable of complex emotional landscape.

Gods… the weight of everything I've read, the sheer magnitude of his meticulously documented existence, now pressed down on me. How do I walk out of this self-imposed tomb of Levi's secrets, and face him across a dinner table? How do I reconcile the brilliant, ruthless strategist with the lonely, emotionally stunted man I've come to understand?

The possibilities felt equally paralyzing. Utter silence, a choked inability to articulate the swirling vortex of emotions inside me. Or the complete opposite: a sudden, uncontrollable deluge of tears, a raw outpouring of the empathy and sorrow that now threatened to overwhelm me. Neither felt like a viable option for a normal dinner conversation.

The hours had vanished, swallowed whole by the relentless turning of pages. An entire day spent navigating the chronological order of his life, the trajectory of his grand, all-consuming plan. It wasn't a diary in the traditional sense. It was a record of strategies and outcomes, a blueprint for reshaping a nation. And it hadn't even touched upon his formative years, the childhood that surely held the seeds of this complex man.

How do I talk to him now? He sometimes asks about my family. My life, my upbringing… the conditional love, the ingrained prejudice, the stifling expectations. It was painful, yes, a constant negotiation for acceptance. But compared to the stark landscape of his existence, the strategic maneuvering, the profound isolation… it feels almost trivial. A small, personal ache against the backdrop of a grand tragedy.

That day I lashed out, calling him a bastard, and his reply echoed in my mind: "I wish." Of course he wished that. A bastard, free from the weight of expectation, free from the suffocating legacy of his birth. A longing for a simpler, perhaps even crueler, truth than the intricate web he had woven for himself. How do I bridge that gap? Do I even dare to speak of my conditional love when he seems to have known none at all?

His words from just four days ago echoed in my mind, sharp and undeniably true: I stood on a moral high ground, my conscience a clear divide of black and white, precisely because I had never been forced into the agonizing crucible of choice, the kind that stains the soul. Yeah. He was utterly, completely, unequivocally right. It wasn't about condoning his often ruthless actions, the morally ambiguous paths he had trod. It was about understanding the context, the festering wound of that corrupt nobility that had, through their own arrogance, their incestuous bloodlines, and their training of him as a weapon, inadvertently orchestrated their own downfall.

I don't want to sound grandiose, to claim some sudden enlightenment. I'm sure our future will be filled with heated debates about morality, about the blurry lines between right and wrong.

Despite my own history of fleeing a country that offered me no safety, despite the pain of that forced exile, standing here, privy to the brutal realities Levi faced and the impossible choices he made, I feel like a sheltered idiot. A paradox indeed – a refugee suddenly humbled by the starkly different and far more brutal choices someone else was forced to make.

And there are the yellow files. The crimes of the nobility. I caught a glimpse into that abyss four days ago, and the images… they're still burned onto the back of my eyelids. I can't even bring myself to open another one. Part of it is pure revulsion, a visceral rejection of such monstrous acts. But there's something else, a dark, unsettling corner of my own psyche that whispers a dangerous thought: a flicker of anger directed at Levi.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years he meticulously documented their atrocities, patiently weaving his intricate plan to dismantle their power without resorting to outright violence, without murder. What would I have done, witnessing that day after day? I know myself well enough to admit it. I wouldn't have been so restrained. At least one of those entitled bastards would have met a swift, violent end at my hands. Yeah. I'll own that ugly truth.

One of his motivations, he freely admitted, was a twisted form of amusement, a dark satisfaction in hunting the very parasites who had poisoned his world. But me? Would I have possessed his glacial patience? Or, scratch that, would I have even bothered with documentation? No. My justice would have been immediate, visceral, and undoubtedly illegal.

Shit… is Levi… morally better than me?

The thought hits me with the force of a physical blow, leaving me reeling. A man who meticulously avoided bloodshed, who chose the slow burn of strategic dismantling over the immediate satisfaction of revenge… is he, in his detached, calculating way, more morally upright than my own impulsive heart? Oh my god… The monster I feared… might possess a moral compass far more complex, and perhaps even more principled, than my own.

Oh my god. Wait… is this the truth of it? Can it possibly be? A wave of nausea crested within me, threatening to choke me on my own disbelief. Me, with my simmering anger issues, my impulsive reactions that often bypassed any semblance of rational thought… I would have snapped. I know I would have. Confronted with the daily parade of noble cruelty, the casual exercise of power over the defenseless… I might stop short of outright murder. But the primal urge to lash out, to inflict physical pain, to beat at least one of those smug, entitled bastards senseless? That’s not just on the table; it’s practically a certainty.

While Levi meticulously, patiently orchestrated the downfall of an entire corrupt system, I was busy… nagging. Complaining about the human cost, repeatedly questioning his methods from my comfortable perch of ignorance, just four days ago. Oh my god. He was fucking right. I had absolutely no idea. No real understanding of the monstrous reality he faced. I repeatedly judged his actions, his calculated ruthlessness, when I couldn't even distinguish a duke from a baron, so utterly removed was I from their world.

My husband – the man I judged, the man I feared – he ended a centuries-long cycle of brutal abuse, while I… I approached him with my naive concerns about the "human cost," clinging to my simplistic notions of right and wrong.

My hands flew to my face, a futile attempt to shield myself from the searing heat of embarrassment. His words from four days ago echoed with brutal clarity, each phrase a fresh indictment: "'Empathetic observer'," he had sneered, dripping with a contempt I hadn't fully grasped then. "'Preserving your untainted morality'," a bitter accusation of my sheltered existence. "'Soothing your precious conscience'," dismissing my concerns as self-indulgent platitudes. "'Abstract principles, comfortable moral high ground'."

My "empathy" had been a comfortable distance, my morality untested. I had judged him from a place of profound ignorance, blind to the unimaginable horrors that fueled his actions and the desperate choices of those he had inadvertently saved.

Gods… the shame is so intense, so all-consuming, I feel like I might literally wither away into dust. He was utterly, devastatingly right. How dare I have even opened my mouth, spewing my simplistic moral pronouncements, when I can't even bring myself to read the 'yellow' files, the documented horrors that fueled his every action.

This… this is how justiciars are born, isn't it? Not from abstract ideals, but forged in the brutal crucible of relentless torment, systemic abuse, a shared, suffocating existence where everyone was drowning in the same putrid water. And then came Levi, the strategist, the ruthless intellect, the mind that saw the patterns, the levers of power. He went and brought a form of brutal, necessary justice, leaving those parasitic noblemen to rot in the very jails they should have occupied for centuries.

And what did I do? I fucking nagged him. I stood on my flimsy moral high ground and whined about right and wrong. Those monsters didn't even deserve the relative comfort of a jail cell. But I went to Levi, the man who endured years of their depravity, and I nagged him about the human cost.

The weight of it all is crushed me, a sudden avalanche burying me under layers of shame and regret. Months ago, when Levi's intricate plans were still unfolding, my wariness, my ingrained suspicion that saw him as a predator circling his prey, blinded me. I didn't truly consider the victims, not in a tangible, human way. They were just abstract figures in a grand, dangerous game.

And because of that distrust, that self-protective fear, I offered Levi no real, meaningful help. Yes, he extracted what he needed from our sham marriage, the public facade, the strategic advantages. But beyond occasionally warming his bed, I was essentially a passive observer, a reluctant participant. Gods… the magnitude of what I missed. I could have been a genuine ally in his ambitious plan, a source of support for the countless victims yearning for liberation, if only I had chosen to look beyond my own fear, to peer behind the unsettling veil of his methods. The opportunities I squandered, the potential good I could have contributed… My fear, might have inadvertently prolonged the suffering of so many.

His cutting words reverberated through the silence of my mind: "Empathetic observer." Yes. That's all I was. A detached spectator, watching the unfolding drama of a nation's transformation without truly engaging, without offering any meaningful contribution beyond the superficial requirements of our arrangement. Lost in my anxieties, my self-absorption and suspicion, I hadn't even fully grasped the plight of the victims, viewing their suffering through a distant lens.

Memories of those opulent galas flickered through my mind. Meeting Lady Isolde, the subtle tension when Levi orchestrated the dissolution of her engagement to her cousin… what was my reaction then? A vague sense of distaste for the arranged marriage, perhaps a flicker of sympathy for Isolde. But beyond that? Nothing. Partly intimidation, yes, the sheer power and presence of the nobility had often silenced me. But ultimately, throughout this entire, tumultuous rodeo of ending a monarchy, I was nothing more than an "observer." And not even an empathetic one, I now realize with a sickening lurch of self-awareness. Just a naive idiot, clinging to simplistic notions of right and wrong, a mere high school graduate utterly incapable of conceiving or executing a plan of this magnitude, a foreigner struggling to even comprehend the intricate and suffocating class system. An observer. I… hate myself for my blindness, my inaction, my utter lack of understanding.

I was too caught up in the individual threads of my fear and suspicion to grasp the intricate design. I was nothing but a detached observer, standing on the periphery while history unfolded before my very eyes. Gods…

The impulse to apologize clawed at my throat, a desperate urge to alleviate this suffocating shame. But no. That would be for me, a selfish attempt to soothe my conscience, to seek absolution he isn't even wired to readily offer. So, what can I do? How do I move beyond this crushing self-loathing, this paralysis of regret? I've been entombed in this windowless study for an entire day, surrounded by the silent witnesses of his meticulous planning, illuminated only by the cold glow of the monitors.

This space, meant to reveal his secrets, has instead become a mirror reflecting my own profound inadequacy.

A desperate need for connection, a primal urge to bridge the chasm that had opened between us, surged through me. Talk to him? The words felt inadequate, clumsy. Perhaps a hug, a silent offering of comfort for a pain I was only beginning to comprehend. Or, better yet, a question. A direct, actionable inquiry: "What can I do? Right now?" Yes. That should be the focus. Action, not just remorse.