Transmigrated as the Cuck.... WTF!!!

That night, everyone carried an ashen expression, the shadow of the quarrel between Evelyn, Celeste, and Art lingering among them. The so-called bonfire party had lost all its warmth, abruptly extinguished before it could even fulfill its purpose.

Celeste was carried back to her home by Zyon, while the others dispersed into the night without a word. Nobody had the courage, nor the audacity, to question Art or Evelyn. Their outburst had been loud, sharp, even ugly—but it wasn't without reason. They weren't entirely wrong.

And though no one said it outright, everyone knew: Celeste had crossed a line. At least for the moment, she was in the wrong. So, in their own quiet, cowardly way, they chose to leave it at that, to keep the act forgotten, swept under the rug.

When the night finally swallowed the embers, each of them returned to their respective homes. Celeste, however, found herself confined to her own silence.

She sat cooped up inside her room, clutching an ice pack Leon had made for her, pressing it against the bruised side of her face. The cold stung, but at least it dulled the pain.

Knock. Knock.

The sudden sound at her door made her brows furrow instinctively. Her first reaction was irritation, a tightening of her lips, but she still asked, voice weary, "Who's there?"

"It's me, Leon. Just here to check up on you," came the reply. His voice carried a shade of concern, awkward but genuine.

Celeste's first thought was to reject him immediately. She didn't want company. She didn't want pity. But as her hand held the ice pack he had prepared for her, she paused. That small fact tugged at her stubbornness. With a reluctant sigh, she yielded.

"...Fine. Come in. The door is unlocked."

The door opened with a quiet creak, and Leon stepped inside. His eyes immediately found her—Celeste, sitting before her mirror, the dim candlelight flickering across her bruised cheek as she pressed the ice pack to it.

He shut the door behind him, though he didn't lock it, leaving that thin line of distance. He approached slowly, scratching the back of his neck, his embarrassment and awkwardness painfully obvious.

Clearing his throat, he finally spoke, though the words seemed to weigh heavy on him. "Ahm… I don't know if I'm crossing my boundaries here. But we've spent quite a bit of time together recently and—" he paused, taking in a breath, gathering courage. "—am I wrong to presume that you have changed? Because… from the way you've been acting these past few days… I don't think this is your real self."

Celeste stilled. The ice pack stopped moving against her face. For a moment she didn't answer, then she lazily leaned her head against her left arm, letting out a sharp little smirk.

"Oh? Is that so?" Her voice was tinged with mockery. "Then you're wrong with all your presumptuous thoughts. This—" she gestured at herself, eyes flicking back to the mirror—"is exactly the way I've always been."

Her tone grew colder. "And you don't need to concern yourself with my problems. Even if I had changed—what then? It's none of your business. We've barely known each other for a week."

The sharp dismissal only deepened Leon's suspicion. He didn't retreat. If anything, her words only strengthened his resolve. He doubled down, his eyes narrowing with quiet intensity.

"It's exactly as I thought. You have changed. No—" he shook his head, voice steadying, "—a better way to put it is you're hurting. That's what this is."

He studied her carefully as he spoke, noting how her hand had frozen mid-motion, how her shoulders had stiffened, how the weight in her eyes betrayed something she refused to admit.

"Maybe you're more affected by Cassius's death than you want anyone to know. That jab you made at Evelyn earlier—" he hesitated, gauging her reaction, "—wasn't it because you felt she was brushing off his death? Neglecting it? Neglecting him? As if by moving on so quickly she was tarnishing his memory, in some way disrespecting him?"

Crack.

The sound split the air.

The ice pack in her hand shattered, shards scattering across the floor. Slivers of ice dug into her palm, and thin lines of blood welled up, dripping down her fingers.

Leon flinched at the suddenness of it, instinctively stepping forward, concern flashing across his face. But before he could reach her, Celeste raised her uninjured hand sharply, halting him in place.

"Just get lost, I don't wanna see your face." Celeste's voice cut sharp, dripping with venom. Her words were laced not just with irritation but with that particular burn of hatred that left no room for negotiation.

Leon froze mid-step, his hand half-extended toward her. His fingers curled slowly into a fist, then loosened. He gave a small, stiff nod and turned his back to her. His boots dragged softly against the polished floor.

But before leaving, he lifted a hand, snapped his fingers, and conjured another ice pack onto the dressing table beside Celeste. A quiet, final gesture of care that clashed against her rejection.

His hand lingered on the doorknob. He pulled it open slowly, pausing with his head lowered as though he debated whether to speak. Then, in a voice calm but heavy, he murmured:

"Everyone has a different way of dealing with grief. But if someone is so blinded by the shadow of their loss that they end up crushing the people still standing beside them… then maybe grief isn't a noble thing after all."

He didn't wait for her answer. He didn't even glance back. Leon stepped through the doorway, the light dimming as the door closed behind him with a hollow click.

The silence that followed felt suffocating.

"Hahhhhhhhhhhh…" Celeste exhaled in a shaky breath, her chest rising and falling unevenly. She slumped forward, her arms collapsing against the dressing table.

The proud poise she always carried was gone, her body folded in defeat. Her beautiful face twisted into something raw and ugly, the kind of expression she would never allow anyone to see.

Her lips trembled as words stumbled out, broken and incoherent, "Stupid bastard… as if I'm grieving… as if I'm grieving for anyone."

But the truth betrayed her. Hot tears blurred her vision, spilling freely down her cheeks, leaving burning tracks along her pale skin.

She wiped at them furiously, as though erasing them would erase the emotions, but they kept coming. Sniffs became uneven breaths, uneven breaths turned into muffled sobs, until her whole body shook with the force of her crying.

Her heart throbbed with a pain that words couldn't shape. A suffocating ache she had locked away for years but which Leon's words had cracked open like a hammer against fragile glass.

And then—memories came rushing.

Memories she had buried deep, so deep that she convinced herself they weren't even hers. Memories blacker than pitch, darker than the deepest oceans, so heavy they swallowed the sunlight of her soul.

…

Long ago, before the icy mask, before the hatred, before the bitter cynicism there was another Celeste. A girl untouched by the rot of the world. A Celeste who was kind, soft, warm, and unbearably naïve. A young princess of Fontaine, radiating cheer, her heart bursting with untainted compassion.

She would roam her hometown freely, sneaking away from her gilded home and overbearing caretakers. And in those unsupervised hours, she wandered into the alleys, the crumbling slums hidden away from noble eyes.

That was where she found them—the people engulfed by poverty, the ones who had nothing but scraps, and who she, in her innocence, called them "friends."

Day after day, she would come bearing food, spare coins, clean clothes, sometimes even books she smuggled out from her shelves. She listened to their stories, tales of hunger and cold, of nights spent on dirt floors and days begging for survival.

Each story pierced her heart, yet only deepened her conviction to help. She believed, so purely, so foolishly that her fortune, her status, her strength, were gifts meant to be shared.

Her parents disapproved, of course. They tightened their watch over her, whispered to keep her sheltered, shielded. But Celeste was stubborn, resourceful, and determined to slip free. Every stolen moment became a chance to bring a little warmth to those who had none.

And on one particular day—her doom began.

Cheerful as ever, she skipped down the narrow cobblestone path, weaving through the filth and shadows of the slums.

"Helloooooo! The little princess is back again!" she sang, waving both arms high with exaggerated enthusiasm. Her laughter was unguarded, bright, disarming. "Here to spread happiness and prosperity once again! Hehehehehe."

Heads turned. Her voice carried, and the slum residents looked up from their corners, from their alleys, their hollowed eyes following her. They smiled, but the smiles were strange, thin, lacking the warmth she had convinced herself was always there.

Still, Celeste's heart swelled. To her, nothing seemed off. Their ragged clothes, their sunken cheeks, their stink of hunger—it had never repelled her before, and it didn't now. She saw only people she wanted to help, people who needed her.

Bounding closer, she beamed. "Hi! I'm back! You guys asked me for money last time but… eheh, I couldn't bring much today. Mom and Dad have been keeping a really close eye on me lately. Someone probably tattled about my little adventures!"

She laughed at her own mischief, puffing her cheeks and giving a playful little tap to her forehead with her fist. It was the kind of silly gesture that usually drew chuckles or playful remarks from the group.

But not today.

Not a single one of them laughed.