"Someone from the Secret Party?" Maria's expression was unusually calm—one might even call it indifferent.
For the past several decades, the words "Secret Party" had always been a Sword of Damocles hanging over her and Vincent's heads.
But now, the fear that had seeped into her bones had vanished. She even found herself looking forward to the arrival of those sword-bearers.
It would be best if they could drag both her and Vincent into hell—she wanted to see whether, amid those eternally burning karmic flames, that man could still maintain his hypocritical facade!
She knew full well that her chances of taking revenge herself were minuscule. The power surging through this body was certainly vigorous, but she was like some monstrous tree whose roots had long since twisted deep into pain. She possessed only the brute strength of life, yet could not move a single step.
With Vincent's caution and suspicion ingrained into his bones, he would never give her any opening to exploit.
After suffering betrayal by the person she had trusted most, after enduring months of lightless torment, fighting suffocation and decay every second of every day, her desire to simply live had long dwindled to almost nothing.
Only one thing remained to keep this terrifying shell from collapsing completely, from allowing her consciousness to sink into darkness—
The inextinguishable rage that burned day and night within the concrete confinement and icy seawater, with nowhere to vent itself!
Hatred was no longer an emotion. It had become her new "blood," coursing through her twisted, proliferating veins; her new "bones," supporting this inhuman body; the only distinct,
the only searing imprint left in her consciousness.
Her hatred for Vincent had long filled every inch of her heart, seeped into every ambiguous breath, and become an instinct saltier than seawater