The Villains Must Win-Chapter 151: The Void

Reid and Tabitha did, in fact, get their happily ever after—complete with a ridiculous mansion, three dogs named after Shakespearean villains, and a his-and-hers snack pantry.

But of course, as with all great love stories, not everything went according to the fairytale script.

After the whole "crazy male lead-turned-stalker-who-got-tackled-by-FBI" incident, life settled into something strangely normal.

Well, normal by Reid and Tabitha’s standards—which meant experimental lasagna that occasionally exploded, passionate debates about who was smarter (Reid, technically; Tabitha, emotionally), and Reid absolutely refusing to let her go to the grocery store alone "because what if another lunatic tries to kidnap you for your sass?"

But when they started trying for kids, things got . . . tough.

Tabitha couldn’t get pregnant. They tried. And tried. And cried. And then tried again. It wasn’t just a bump in the road—it was an avalanche of emotion, hormones, doctor visits, and enough uncomfortable procedures to write a whole spin-off series.

One night, Tabitha curled into Reid’s chest and whispered, "What if I can’t give you a family?"

Reid just kissed her forehead and said, "Darling, I am your husband. You’re stuck with me forever either way."

And then, because he was Reid—the man who could create bioengineered viruses that could bankrupt nations—he went to work in his lab.

A few months later, he came back with a solution. A non-invasive, fully safe, ethically-approved-but-definitely-grey-area method of creating children that didn’t involve pregnancy, pain, or, as Tabitha liked to call it, "body horror."

Enter: their two perfectly engineered children.

A boy and a girl. Identical in brilliance, chaotic energy, and sarcasm. Little Reid and Little Tabitha, down to the smug smirks and love for snack hoarding.

By the time they were five, one had hacked into Reid’s encrypted server just to replace all his files with kitten memes, and the other was negotiating bedtime like a seasoned lawyer with stock options.

"You made tiny monsters," Tabitha told him once, holding a juice-stained report card that read: "Your daughter corrected the teacher’s math. She was right. The teacher cried."

Reid just beamed proudly. "Mini geniuses. You’re welcome."

And so they grew old together—through late-night giggles, burned pancakes, science fair scandals, family therapy (because when your dad’s a former villain-turned-FBI consultant and your mom once bit a stalker, there’s bound to be stories), and countless lazy Sundays

on the porch.

Wrinkles came. Their knees started clicking. Reid’s hair turned white, Tabitha’s sass only grew sharper with age, and they both got real cozy yelling at automated voice assistants who never listened.

And one day, sitting side by side in their garden, wrapped in blankets and love and the sound of their kids arguing over quantum physics inside, Tabitha looked over and said, "So, was this all in your master plan?"

Reid grinned. "Plan? Please. I just wanted to impress a girl with attitude and snacks."

She rolled her eyes but smiled. "Worked out, didn’t it?"

He squeezed her hand. "Better than I ever calculated."

Bittersweet? Maybe.

But perfect?

Absolutely.

=== ===

"Definitely got a five-star," I said, watching the replay of my final moments with Reid unfold like a perfectly wrapped drama-comedy-romance.

Tabitha had gone first—unsurprisingly, due to decades of unapologetically excessive snacking, late-night fried chicken, and her refusal to ever drink water unless it came with bubbles and sugar.

Reid followed just a few hours later, because of course he did. The man couldn’t even go a lunch break without checking if she was still breathing. Growing old together was always the plan, and apparently, dying together was the encore.

In Tabitha’s final moment—her white hair fluffed up around her face, her body curled peacefully into her favorite recliner—Reid sat beside her, holding her frail hand.

And what did he see?

Not the wrinkles or the gray hairs or even the mischievous twinkle that had somehow never left her eyes.

No. He saw that same chubby girl barging into the math club years ago, cheeks puffed, eyes fierce, and a grin that said, the world will bow to me.

"Hello there, my lovelies. Mind if I join the team?" she’d said, like she already owned the room—and possibly the building.

From that exact moment on, his world flipped upside down. And he never wanted it any other way.

When the memory ended, I looked at the bunny—yes, that bunny, the one in charge of evaluating story arcs and granting world ranks—who stared back at me with an unreadable expression.

Was it awe? Confusion? Pity? Digestive discomfort?

"I mean . . . that counts as a full arc, right?" I asked, raising an eyebrow. "Comedy, romance, humor, psycho male lead, FBI raids, fake babies—and snacks."

The bunny’s nose twitched. Still silent.

I leaned forward. "Be honest. You cried, didn’t you?"

Still nothing.

Then it sighed, scribbled something into its clipboard, and said in a deadpan voice:

". . . Fine. Five stars. B-Rank unlocked. Next."

Victory!

"You should be happy I aced this one. So, what can I get with my fourteen stars?" I asked, rubbing my hands together.

The bunny pulled up the shop screen with a deadpan expression.

🔸 [Half-Eaten Lollipop] – Tastes like regret. Provides absolutely no benefits.

— Price: 5 Stars

I sighed deeply. "Yeah, let’s skip the bargain bin of disappointment and head to the B-rank world. I’m really excited for this one."

The bunny narrowed its eyes. "Don’t get your hopes up. B-rank and above? Whole different beast. Like, emotional trauma and sudden death kind of beast."

I shrugged. "I like it in nightmare mode."

The bunny gave me the flat look of someone who’s watched too many cocky protagonists die in Act One.

"Don’t say I didn’t warn you."

And with that, I was yeeted off my feet—literally.

One second, I was standing there, and the next—

BAM!

The universe roundhouse-kicked me into oblivion.

I was flung headfirst through a glowing vortex of stars, sparkles, and what suspiciously smelled like wet dog and burnt toast. My limbs flailed as the void stretched and twisted around me like some budget cosmic rollercoaster.

This was it. My first B-rank world. I’d finally earned my first real fantasy arc—a werewolf story. A full-blown moonlit forest, howl-at-the-sky, claws-and-pack-politics kind of deal.