Marceline’s eyes locked onto Cross, refusing to accept the words she just heard. It felt like a cruel joke, one so dark it threatened to shatter what little hope she was clinging to. Her voice trembled, barely above a whisper, but laced with desperate disbelief.

“You’re joking, right?”

Cross didn’t meet her gaze. Instead, he turned his face away, like a man hiding behind a mask of indifferent cruelty.

“What if I was joking?” His voice was cold, edged with a dangerous mockery as if to test how far he could push her sanity.

Marceline nodded, a hollow, shaky gesture more out of instinct than belief. She wanted to believe...