The Tragic Male Lead Chose the Wrong Partner

Since he had promised to follow her lead, Masera rubbed his face like a man washing without water, clearly troubled.
“…Understood.”
* * *

When they returned to the room, Masera was visibly preoccupied.
The wine, cake, and fruit prepared for the newlyweds—he could tolerate that much. But the scattered rose petals annoyed him, and so did the sound of running water from the bathroom.
What does it all mean?

The way she had looked at him, eyes pleading “Please stay with me”, could be interpreted—regardless of the nature of their relationship—as a rather provocative signal to a healthy man.
The fact that her face looked slightly flushed didn’t help. And on top of that—she was beautiful.
Silver-threaded hair, softly sloped eyes, clear and large pupils, small lips, and a harmless white smile.

She looked up at him, drying her damp hair.
“The hot water runs well. I was worried I’d have to do a cold rinse.”
Beautiful?

Was that what I just thought?
He had faced all kinds of seduction, including naked women crawling into his bed, but never before had his composure been shaken like this.
By a single sentence?

Masera retreated quickly to the bathroom and came out after his shower dressed very tightly.
When he stepped back into the room, Cynthia was already under the covers, pulled up to her head.
“I’ll…”

He was just about to say he’d sleep on the sofa when a flash lit up the window. The fireworks had started.
Boom—!
The room wasn’t as soundproof as expected. The bursting of fireworks filtered in.
Cynthia flinched under the blanket and curled into a ball.

“What’s wrong?”
Now sensing something was off, Masera gently pulled back the blanket to check on her.
She had her hands pressed over her ears, and when she lifted her head, her face was filled with terror. Her already pale skin was now ghostly white.

It looked almost exactly like the face she had made during the shooting at the engagement ceremony.
“Are you hurt? Tell me your symptoms—”
As he asked, Cynthia, trembling, buried her head back into the sheets.

“…I’m scared.”
Could she be afraid of the fireworks?
Masera recalled the symptoms of war trauma.

Not just soldiers—civilians, even children—suffered from post-war PTSD.
He hurried to turn off all the lights in the bedroom.
But that shouldn’t be the case. She was somewhere untouched by the war…

He was just about to get up and ask the steward for a sedative when she grabbed his hand.
“Don’t go.”
Masera turned back to her.

“Why?”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
She was still buried under the blanket, and he could hear her sniffle.

Where was her mind right now? Who was she talking to? Perhaps… the ‘oppa’ she’d called out for during the engagement?
Masera sat next to her.
There were no signs of hyperventilation or a seizure. For now, it seemed best just to stay.

He looked down at the pale, slender hand clutching his.
She always wore gloves—this was the first time he’d seen her bare hand.
“…”

It was too rough for a hand raised in royal nobility.
Then he noticed the tears soaking into the sheet where her face was buried.
He gently patted her back, curled up and trembling.

Boom—!
A bright burst lit up the room with multicolored sparks. It must have been the climax of the fireworks.
“Uhh… Mom, Dad… Unnie…”

Cynthia was covering her ears, crying like a terrified child.
Just as Masera was trying to figure out what to do, she tugged on his hand.
In the dark, his violet-tinted eyes slowly turned to the ceiling.

“You’re such a distraction.”
He muttered quietly.
And just like that, as Cynthia pulled, his body slowly leaned toward her.

Somewhere above the deck, someone was likely watching the fireworks, full of joy and nostalgia—but down here, someone else was curled up, reliving an air raid.
And someone was holding that person, gently trying to comfort them.
Time passed, and the room became utterly still.

“It’s over now.”
He tried to draw Cynthia back into reality, her face buried against his chest as he held her.
He felt her head shift slightly beneath his chin. Her breathing was much calmer now.

And who knows how much time passed.
Should I tell her physician?
Lying flat on his back, Masera stared at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Cynthia was resting her head on his broad shoulder, arms wrapped around his waist.
What do I do about her clothes…
It must have been just after she had changed into her nightwear when the trauma hit. She hadn’t fastened the buttons properly, and her bare skin brushed against his.

Her body pressed tightly to his, she smelled of peaches in milk.
* * *
Rumble—!

“It’ll be okay. Don’t cry.”
Her father’s gentle voice came just as the shelter’s siren signaled an incoming air raid.
Was this a dream? A hallucination?

The scene changed.
From where I was curled under the bed, I saw a pair of military boots walking by.
Following my dad’s advice to count to 100, I closed my eyes and counted inwardly.

One, two, three, four…
I counted to the rhythm of the gunfire that shook even the floor.
One person, two people, three…

Gunfire always came with screams.
That day, my father died.
Back then, I only knew how to count to fifty. After his funeral, my brother—who had carried me on his back—said:

“Little one, from now on I’ll protect you. We promised Dad we’d always live with a smile, remember?”
I was young then, and my much older brother was a soldier.
“Oppa, why does everyone keep dying except me?”

“You were just lucky. Remember the time the building collapsed and you survived? Mom and Dad always said you were a lucky baby.”
“When will the war end? I miss my friends.”
My older sister, five years ahead of me and the one who taught me how to count to 100, smiled sadly.

“…Just think of it like a play. This war, this pain—someday, the curtain will fall.”
“If we imagine we’re in a play where everyone’s happy, do you think we’ll really be happy?”
My brother’s voice echoed: To do that, you have to survive.

Later, both my brother and sister died—but I survived.
As always, by sheer luck.
“Don’t leave me alone…”

They say there’s a law of balance in this world.
For everything I gained, someone else lost.
Sometimes I wondered—was my luck really someone else’s misfortune? I was plagued by guilt, just as naturally as I heard the grieving voices of the bereaved.

Even so, I kept smiling and lived on. It was everyone’s dying wish.
Then the survivors started whispering that the government had abandoned the city. Occupation was only a matter of time.
What were we even fighting for? I never wanted this war.

On the thirtieth air raid day, I didn’t go to the shelter.
Cold rain soaked the ruined city.
Sending people off to their deaths one by one and being left behind each time—maybe dying quickly was luckier.

The rain felt like it was washing all the sorrow away. I ★ 𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭 ★ even felt relieved.
I sat at an abandoned piano by the roadside and pressed the keys. Some didn’t even make a sound.
“I should’ve practiced harder when I had the chance.”

Maybe I could’ve gone out with flair, like the final act of a pianist’s life.
At that moment, I saw planes flying in formation overhead.
When had I stopped being afraid of them?

Before the war, my dad and brother used to make paper planes for me. One such image streaked across the sky like a ghost.
“Take me with you, too.”
Smiling, I looked up at the cloudy sky.

The streaks falling like a meteor shower were dazzlingly beautiful.
“Mom, Dad, Oppa, Unnie… I’m coming to see you now.”
That was my final will.

Through the light surrounding me, I heard someone’s voice.
“It’s okay now.”
Only then, hearing that gentle voice, did I realize—it was all a dream.

I reached toward the source of the voice.
And soon after, I felt the warmth of someone embracing me.