His Private Hell - Chapter 134: Chapter 134

The city was different now.
Wounded.
Alive.
Buzzing with exposed secrets and dead gods.
But in the underground—the real underground—where silence bought loyalty and blood baptized alliances, something darker was stirring.
They called it The Revival.
They called her The Red Widow.
But Garrison only called her Eella.
And he wanted her back.
He moved through ruins with surgical rage.
Clinic to compound.
Old Choir labs turned ghost dens.
Vivienne’s downfall had cracked the system, but it hadn’t destroyed it. The beast was headless, yes—but monsters had more than one brain.
He found a child in a cage.
Another in a chair.
A girl with glass eyes and stitches where dreams used to be.
And he burned it all down.
One lab at a time.
One horror at a time.
Until his hands were black and his soul was bone.
Eella watched from a distance.
From shadows.
From rooftops and alleys and places where angels no longer wandered.
She didn’t stop him.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t breathe when he passed beneath her perch.
Because to reach for him meant to unravel.
And she wasn’t done becoming the weapon she promised herself she’d be.
Not yet.
But he knew she was close.
He felt it in the way his scars itched.
In the way mirrors cracked.
In the way he dreamed of her again—always wet with rain, always smeared with ash, always screaming his name like a curse.
He didn’t run.
Didn’t hide.
Garrison Knight was done hiding from his sin.
And so, he summoned it.
⸻
A warehouse outside Prague.
Silent.
Cold.
Lit by candlelight and crime.
Garrison entered through the side door, wearing black, carrying nothing but a blade and a lighter.
He stepped into the center of the floor.
And said, “I know you’re here.”
No response.
But a drop of water echoed.
A whisper.
Then—
Her.
Walking out from the dark in red.
Blood-red coat.
Black gloves.
Hair pulled back like war.
And eyes…
God, her eyes.
He almost dropped to his knees.
But she stopped ten feet away.
Neither moving.
Neither breathing.
Until he whispered—
“I’ve killed for you.”
Her lips didn’t move.
“I’ve bled countries to find you.”
She stared.
“I would burn my soul to ash to deserve you.”
A single breath.
Then—
“You don’t deserve me,” she said.
And it sliced deeper than the blade at her hip.
Garrison nodded.
“I know.”
She stepped closer.
One pace.
Two.
Three.
Until she was chest to chest with him.
She reached up—slowly—dragged her glove across his jaw, then shoved him back with the force of all her fury.
He staggered.
Then caught himself.
Then smiled.
“I missed that.”
She punched him.
Hard.
Lip split.
His head snapped to the side—but he didn’t move again.
Didn’t retaliate.
She hit him again.
Again.
Then she kissed him.
Blood smeared between their lips.
His hands found her waist.
Her hand found his throat.
They kissed like war.
Like ruin.
Like they were the only ones left after the world had burned.
And maybe they were.
When she pulled back, her eyes were wet.
His were worse.
“You came back for me,” she said.
“I never left.”
She laughed—shaky, bitter, beautiful.
“You’re an idiot.”
“I know.”
“I’m poison.”
“I’m already dead.”
She pushed him again.
He didn’t move.
“I can’t be who I was,” she whispered. “That girl’s gone.”
“Good.”
He stepped forward.
“I never wanted her.”
His forehead pressed to hers.
“I want the woman who unmade the world for vengeance.”
His fingers slipped into hers.
“I want the monster I created.”
A pause.
Then—
“I want you to unmake me too.”
And that’s when she broke.
Silent tears.
Shaking shoulders.
He held her like a prayer no god deserved.
And in that warehouse, under that storm-light silence, two monsters forgave themselves.
By choosing each other again.
⸻
Later.
Naked.
Breathless.
Bruised by want and war.
They lay tangled on cold sheets, bodies marked in new places.
Eella stared at the ceiling.
Garrison stared at her.
“Will you stay?” she asked, barely audible.
“I’ll die where you leave me,” he said.
She looked at him, eyes dark, soul darker.
“You’re still broken.”
“So are you.”
They kissed again.
Softer now.
Like absolution.
Like maybe this time, their ending wouldn’t be a funeral.
But a rebirth.
⸻
Elsewhere—
Darcie watched from the dark, a cigarette burning low between her fingers.
Beside her, Astrid was silent.
Watching the footage.
Eella and Garrison, together again.
Touching like redemption.
Kissing like home.
“Should we tell her what’s coming?” Darcie asked.
Astrid didn’t blink.
“No.”
“She deserves to know—”
“She deserves to be happy for five seconds.”
Silence.
Then Darcie nodded.
Because she knew what was coming too.
The last survivor.
The last Choir experiment.
The real Project Vesper.
Eella thought she’d ended it.
But the devil had one more heir.
And it wore Eella’s face.