To Gentle the Storm Chapter 1

Four years. Four years I’d spent trying to save her, and in a single, careless moment, Elara discovered how I truly felt.

She had me pinned against the wall, her fingers digging into my neck, her eyes burning with a dark, furious storm.

“I’ve sunk so low that a stutterer like you has a crush on me?” she spat, her voice dripping with venom. “Do you even think you’re worthy?”

Pure rage contorted her beautiful features. She became crueler than ever before, a hurricane of spite. She trashed her immaculate room, a whirlwind of destruction aimed at anything and everything I found beautiful.

But whenever he was around—the story's hero—she would sheath her claws, transforming into the very picture of gentle grace.

That night, after she threw me out, I cried until my eyes were swollen shut. I found the System and gave up.

“I… I can’t save her anymore.”

The System’s voice was laced with sympathy. 【The mission isn’t over, but we can change the target. Would you like to save someone else?】

I nodded, a wave of relief washing over me.

【As is standard protocol, I will erase your memories of this mission. Please prepare for the final transition.】

A breath I didn't know I was holding escaped my lips.

Let it be over.

* * *

Elara had locked herself in her room again.

I could hear the sickening symphony from the hallway—the crash and shatter of furniture, the thud of objects hitting the walls. I curled up into a ball outside her door, hands clamped over my ears, trying to block out the sounds of her self-destruction.

After what felt like an eternity, the chaos subsided into a dead silence.

My legs, numb from crouching, tingled as I unsteadily rose. I eased the door open, my heart pounding against my ribs.

The room was a cavern of shadows, the air thick with the scent of ozone and dust. Shards of a shattered vase littered the floor like fallen stars. Elara was slumped against the far wall, a broken silhouette in the gloom. Her head was bowed, and from one limp hand, blood dripped rhythmically onto the polished floor.

My chest tightened. I scrambled to grab the first-aid kit and knelt beside her.

“L-let me… bandage that for you.” I gestured toward her hand.

She didn’t move, didn’t even seem to register my presence. I took that as my cue, my hands moving with practiced efficiency as I cleaned the wound and applied antiseptic.

A deep, angry gash ran across her slender palm. Her knuckles were raw and scraped. A familiar ache of sympathy bloomed in my chest, and a few hot tears escaped, tracing paths down my cheeks.

A faint, cool breeze drifted in from the shattered window. Elara’s fingers twitched, the tense line of her brow slowly relaxing.

Encouraged, I cupped her hand in mine and began to blow gently on the wound, my warm breath a soft caress against her skin.

Suddenly, her other hand shot out, her fingers digging cruelly into my cheek. “Disgusting. What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

Her eyes, now sharp and lucid, glared into mine. I managed a weak, foolish grin.

She yanked her hand back and shoved me away, stumbling to her feet. “Get lost.”

“L-let me help you,” I offered, scrambling to follow.

“I said, get lost!” she roared, pushing me hard. I lost my balance and fell backward, my hand landing squarely on a shard of broken glass. A sharp pain shot up my arm.

Elara’s face paled. Her lips parted as if to say something, but in the end, she just clamped her jaw shut, turned, and stormed out of the room.

I sniffled, pulling the glass from my palm and wrapping it with a bandage from the kit.

It’s okay, I told myself. It’s always been like this.

Elara wasn’t a bad person. She just couldn’t control the storm inside her.

Later that evening, I cooked a proper meal—three dishes and a soup. The sprawling apartment felt empty with just the two of us. After setting the table, I went back to the thankless task of cleaning up the wreckage of her room.

By the time she emerged from her shower, I was wiping sweat from my brow. I pointed to the dining table.

“D-dinner is—”

“Just shut up,” she snapped, tossing a damp towel onto the floor. “I can’t stand listening to you stutter.”

She sat down at the table, her expression a mask of cold indifference.

I clamped my mouth shut and returned to my cleaning.

It’s okay.

I was here for her. As long as she was okay, nothing else mattered.