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In the wake of Reginald's grim revelations, an oppressive stillness settled over the room. It lingered, punctuated solely by the waitstaff's intrusive clatter of silver against china. That poised quiet shattered, and the ensuing chatter felt pointedly hollow and disjointed. Throughout the superficial exchange, Ethel was haunted by the omission in his confession—the impact of his sinister influence on her life, on Ernest Fielding's existence, all remained unsaid.

Time crept by until Ethel, mustering her courage, ventured toward the heart of their dilemma.

“You professed your love for me,” she began cautiously.

“I did indeed,” he confessed plainly.

“Then why—”

“It wasn’t something I could resist.”

“But didn’t you try? Even once?”

“During those dreadful late hours, I battled against it,” he whispered, his voice tinged with agony. “I begged you to abandon me.”

“But my heart was yours!”

“You dismissed my warnings, you wouldn’t heed them. You stayed at my side, and as you did, insidiously and steadily, the creative fire within you began to wane.”

She shivered slightly before asking softly, “What could you possibly see in my simple art? In what way did my canvases speak to you?”

I was down to my last thread, you know? You were like the piece I always needed on the puzzle. It's like there was this certain shade—a paint that only bloomed true under your gaze. Your art lost its luster, and like some kind of cosmic joke, the vibrancy leached into my words. My writing erupted in opulent hues as if mocking your struggle to recapture the elusive brilliance your brush once knew.

"Why didn't you just spit it out?"

You would have scoffed, right in my face, and I wouldn't have been able to stomach that scorn. Plus, I clung to a fool's hope that I could rein in whatever was weaving its magic through me. But soon enough, I had to face the music—it was bigger than me, a relentless force using me as its vessel.

"But for heaven's sake," Ethel snapped back, "why ditch me like yesterday’s newspaper, like some dime-a-dance girl who's danced her last?"

Her whole body trembled with the aftershock of that bygone era when he'd coolly dismissed her from his life.

"There's something bigger at play," Reginald muttered, a trace of sorrow threading his words, "the rulebook of my existence. I ought to have felt sorry for you but any glimpse of your pain just got on my nerves. You became less and less to me every day, until what I needed from you—I took—and you were as good as dead to me. We were done; our futures were headed for totally different zip codes. Remember the 'so long' day?"

"You mean when I was groveling at your feet," she interjected with a steel edge.

"That day," he continued with a far-off look, "I laid my last hope for joy six feet under. Would've loved to pick you up off that floor but my heart? Stone cold. If there’s an extra soft spot today, it’s ‘cause you stand for everything I had to give up. When it hit me that I couldn't even shield what I treasured most from myself—I turned into someone even darker, more twisted. It's not 'cause my heart doesn’t know warmth; believe me it does—but there are no regrets sprawled in my way anymore. For me? There’s just the mission now."

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His face was drenched in a kind of rapturous joy, the sort that has a hint of terror in it. His pupils were dilated to the point of engulfing the irises, shining with an otherworldly gleam, both entrancing and menacing. He gave off the disconcerting aura of someone touched with madness or blessed with the sight of a seer.

Time trudged on before Ethel finally spoke up, her voice tinged with a mixture of awe and apprehension, "You've fashioned yourself into one of this era's legends. Isn't that enough for you? Does your hunger for greatness know any bounds?"

Reginald's smile was thin, almost imperceptible. "Ambition," he mused, his voice mocking and self-assured. "Did Shakespeare bow out when he hit his peak? When he had squeezed every drop from the imaginations of his peers? I'm not at that stage yet; my pen isn't ready to retire to its stand."

Her voice turned cold, her gaze accusatory. "Will you keep spiraling down this destructive path, stealing lives as if they were mere trinkets?"

His response was serene, his gaze unflinching. "I'm uncertain."

"Are you just a pawn to the whims of your inscrutable deity?"

"We're all entangled in invisible strings, helpless marionettes dancing to a silent tune: you, Ernest, and myself included. Make no mistake—there's no such thing as freedom here on earth or anywhere else. Much like the tiger that savagely devours its prey, we aren't free either. Every action has been preordained; not even whispers go wasted in the void."

Ethel leaned forward, her voice vibrant with challenge and suspense. "What if I tried to steal your quarry from under your nose? Would that make me another instrument at the behest of your puppeteer god?"

"Without question. But remember," his lips curled in a dark grin, "I am his favorite acolyte."

Her eyes narrowed, desperation bleeding through her words. "Can’t you release him—liberate him from your grasp?"

"I require him," Reginald admitted without remorse, his words sending chills down one's spine. "A bit longer is all I ask. Afterward—then he's all yours to save."

“Please, I’m literally down here on my knees begging you—could you not find a shred of mercy to at least ease the grip of those chains before he’s totally destroyed?”

“There’s not a thing I can do. Look, if I couldn’t even pull you out—and damn it, did I try—you, who I held dearer than my own breath, how can anyone expect me to alter his destiny? And besides, it’s not like he’s heading for total annihilation. I’m only claiming a slice of him, not the whole damn pie. Deep within him are strings untouched by my hands. Who knows? Maybe they’ll twang to life after he picks himself back up. You could’ve dodged a world of hurt had you aimed your efforts away from where I’d already harvested my lifetime’s crop. I’m siphoning just a piece of his spark, alright? The rest is his to waste—or not. Why consign what's left to the depths?"

He shifted his gaze out the window and fixated on the stars stretched across the sky—a silent testament that his iron will was as unswerving as their eternal lights.

In that moment, Ethel careened back through time, her own grievances with him blurring into obscurity. This guy was off-the-charts nuts; there was no regular ruler to size him up with. His once tormented determination had ballooned into something downright monstrous. But now there was more on the line—a kid's future was dangling on a thread right before her eyes. Mentally, she witnessed Reginald's vice-like grip tightening around Ernest Fielding's soul; saw it being suffocated as if it were nothing more than an insignificant insect trapped within the luxuriant yet lethal jaws of some rare and ruthless carnivorous plant.

Then it surged forth—unyielding and fierce—love in its most primordial form. She was ready to claw through heaven and earth for Ernest's fate; safeguard this shining young talent who hadn't spared her a second glance with ferocity akin to a wildcat shielding its kin. She'd become the sacrificial shield against this tempest that had shattered her dreams once before—with everything on the line—to rescue this boy whose heart didn’t echo her affection, but whom she simply couldn't abandon to the dark vortex swirling around them both.