I didn't expect his voice.
But when it came, it carried no confusion—
only certainty.
"I know everything," he said.
Every message.
Every plan.
Every quiet lie whispered in the dark.
He wasn't angry the way I imagined.
He was calm in the way men get when rage has already burned through them and left nothing but ash.
"She wanted you to end me," he continued.
"Now I want you to end her."
The weight of that sentence crushed the air between us.
In that moment, I saw the full picture—
how manipulation multiplies,
how secrets don't stay loyal,
how chaos doesn't care who it consumes.
This wasn't love.
This wasn't revenge.
This was madness asking for permission.
"No," I said.
One word.
Firm.
Final.
He laughed softly, like he expected resistance.
"You're already involved," he said.
"You don't walk away from something like this."
"Yes," I replied.
"You do.
Or you lose yourself completely."
I understood something then that felt like clarity carved in stone:
The moment you agree to destroy someone—
no matter the reason—
you become the very thing you swear you're not.
I wasn't going to be her weapon.
And I wasn't going to be his.
I refused to carry blood for anyone's broken marriage.
Refused to turn pain into legacy.
Refused to let their war make me a criminal of conscience.
"I'm done," I said.
"With all of it."
He stared at me, searching for weakness.
For hesitation.
For fear.
What he found instead was resolve.
Some lines, once crossed, don't let you come back.
Some doors close forever behind you.
When I walked away this time, it wasn't temptation I escaped—
It was annihilation.
And I knew, without doubt:
Surviving isn't just about avoiding death.
Sometimes it's about refusing to become a monster just because others already have.