Hate Me, Miss Witch!

The newcomer appeared to be about the same age as Sylvia, dressed in a dark overcoat. Bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun, his figure overlapped fleetingly with the image of a savior Sylvia had once imagined in her midnight reveries.

But the fleeting flutter of emotion was quickly suppressed. Sylvia turned slightly, her expression reverting to the cold indifference she had long used as armor to shield and protect herself.

"Don't come any closer."

She knew all too well the effect her appearance had on men, paired with the elegance of her noble attire. To strangers unaware of her true identity, she likely appeared to be a pitiable runaway noblewoman.

Who wouldn't be tempted to help a seemingly helpless and beautiful aristocrat?

It was the kind of scenario that traveling bards loved to weave into their tales—the perfect catalyst for a hero's journey or a novice adventurer's lucky encounter.

However, Sylvia had experienced the painful reality that followed such fantasies. The moment her true identity was revealed, those initial smiles of kindness always twisted into masks of malice and disgust.

Time and again, she had lived through this cycle, and her heart had grown numb, her trust reduced to ashes.

"I know you're in a hurry," the boy said casually, as if her silent rejection didn't faze him. "But why don't we slow down for a second?"

"I'm not here to interfere—just curious. How about forming a team?"

"A team?" Sylvia repeated, unfamiliar with the term.

"A temporary partnership," the boy clarified. "A duo, if you will. Judging by the time and place, you're here to jump, aren't you?"

Sylvia froze momentarily.

"Perfect timing," he continued, entirely unbothered. "So am I. Why not jump together? It's not every day you find a kindred spirit."

His words startled Sylvia, breaking her rhythm of thought. In the brief pause, the boy nonchalantly took a few steps closer, stopping just beside her on the cliff's edge.

Sylvia expected him to seize this chance to pull her back from the brink.

But instead, he simply sat down on the edge of the cliff, legs dangling freely over the void, as if it were no more dangerous than a park bench.

"So, why are you jumping?" he asked, as casually as one might ask for the time.

"..."

When Sylvia remained silent, he sighed and kicked his feet. "You know, even death row prisoners get a last meal. Isn't it better to share your thoughts than to take them to the grave?"

For reasons she couldn't quite explain, Sylvia felt her tightly wound heartstrings slacken ever so slightly in his presence.

In a hoarse voice, she murmured, "Because of reasons beyond my control, I've caused the deaths of many people. Most of them were innocent."

"As a result, almost everyone sees me as an object of hatred and disgust."

The words, laced with sorrow and bitterness, slipped out before she could stop them.

For Sylvia, this had always felt like an undeserved curse—a burden she had been born into, with no chance to escape.

"Oh, I see."

Contrary to her expectations, the boy didn't offer comforting platitudes.

Instead, he simply nodded and turned his gaze back to the crashing waves below, as if her confession were no more remarkable than the weather.

His indifference, oddly enough, stirred an uncharacteristic desire within Sylvia to continue.

She pressed her chapped lips together before speaking again, her voice a whisper carried away by the sea breeze. "Maybe they're right. Maybe someone like me—a cursed daughter of calamity—was never meant to exist. Perhaps dying here, unnoticed, is the best outcome for everyone."

"Is that so?"

His voice took on a curious tone, and the words that followed cut through her like a blade.

"Then you're nothing but a pitiful butcher."

The bluntness of his statement caught Sylvia off guard, amplifying the melancholy and self-pity she already felt.

"Yes... I'm a butcher," she said with a bitter smile. "I've taken so many lives with my own hands. I probably deserve to hang on a gallows—"

"No, you misunderstand me."

The boy stood up, stretching his arms lazily before turning to face her fully.

His dark eyes, reflecting the fiery hues of the setting sun, locked onto hers with an intensity that left her momentarily speechless.

"If everyone truly believed you deserved to die, you wouldn't be here right now. In a world like this, without laws or mercy, you would've been executed the first time you lost control."

"But you're still alive. Which means, for all the hatred thrown your way, someone out there wanted you to live."

"And when you decide to end it all like this, you don't just throw away your own life. You trample on the hopes of those who've fought for you to survive—including your mother, who's already passed away."

"Self-pity dressed as redemption is cowardice. Death may seem like atonement, but it's the easiest, most selfish choice you could make."

"Carrying the weight of those lives and moving forward—that's far harder than dying ever could be."

With that, he shrugged and turned back to the sea. "Not that any of this has anything to do with me. I'm just here to jump, after all."

He stepped closer to the edge, spreading his arms wide as if to embrace the raging winds.

"You know," he added, with a hint of mischief in his voice, "I've always wanted to reenact this one scene from a movie I watched as a kid. Oh, a 'movie' is like a play recorded with magic. Anyway, it's this famous moment where the guy says, 'You jump, I jump.'"

He glanced at Sylvia, nodding in mock approval. "And you're even prettier than the girl in that scene. So, what do you say? No backing out now. If I jump first, you have to follow. Promise?"

"Wait, I—" Sylvia started, but her words were drowned out by the sound of rushing wind.

Before she could react, the boy leaned back, letting gravity pull him into the abyss.

Moments later, a faint splash echoed from below.

Sylvia rushed to the edge, her heart racing as she scanned the turbulent waters.

But the only thing she saw was the vast, churning sea—and the boy was nowhere in sight.