To Gentle the Storm
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.
1
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.
2
When I first received the redemption mission, I fought it tooth and nail.
My twenty years in the real world had been a landscape of misery. An orphan, a punching bag for bullies, a shadow living on the fringes. I was a pathetic coward who finally ended it all with a blade to my own throat. Someone like me had no business saving anyone.
But the System told me Elara’s story. It said her temper was so volatile, so destructive, that no one else was willing to take on the mission to pull her back from the brink.
Elara had been an heiress, born into a world of luxury cars, handsome men, and endless privilege. Then a raging fire consumed her life, taking her parents with it. Pinned beneath a collapsed beam, she was forced to watch as they burned to charred remains.
That suffocating despair, that crushing sense of helplessness, became the seed of her bipolar disorder.
Her family's empire crumbled overnight, leaving her with nothing but this apartment and a dwindling trust fund. She attempted suicide several times, each failure twisting her personality further, making her more erratic, more broken.
In the original story, her fate was sealed on an overpass. As she prepared to jump, a young man—the story's hero—rushed forward and pulled her back from the edge. From that moment on, he became her sole reason for living, her anchor in a world of chaos. But her love was a cage. She forbade him from seeing friends, controlled his every move, and effectively imprisoned him. His life became a gilded hell.
Then, the true heroine appeared and rescued him.
A woman of immense power and influence, she was horrified by how her beloved had been treated. As retribution, she had Elara’s eyes gouged out, her face disfigured, and then, in a final act of cruel irony, had her thrown from the very same overpass where her obsession began.
The System asked me to change her tragic destiny. To save her lonely soul.
This time, my heart softened. I agreed. It wasn’t her fault she became this way. If someone as broken as me could salvage even one soul, then I was willing to try.
So, on that fateful day, I became the one who desperately clung to her arm on that overpass.
To my relief, Elara didn't transfer her obsessive affections to me. She despised my presence, recoiled from my touch, and loathed my stutter. For the first year, when the rage took her, she would hit me.
But I was resilient. A weed that refused to be uprooted.
After every outburst, I would be the first to comfort her, to soothe her rage until the storm passed. I learned to cook her favorite meals, hoping to give her a taste of the warmth she’d lost. During her moments of calm, I would tell her, in my halting, clumsy way, that she wasn't alone in this world anymore.
This is my fourth year by her side.
The frequency of her episodes has dwindled. Now, it’s only the violent thunderstorms or the nightmares that threaten to pull her under.
And in the quiet rhythm of our days, in the constant tending to her fragile soul, my sympathy has slowly, imperceptibly, morphed into something else.
Her pain became my pain. Her moods, the bars of my cage. And I, the willing prisoner.
3
By the time I finished cleaning, Elara was already asleep in her bedroom.
I gently tucked the blanket around her and then sat on the floor, content to just watch her in the soft moonlight.
Honestly, Elara was the most beautiful person I had ever seen, in this life or the last. Delicate, sculpted features and a tall, willowy frame. A permanent shadow of melancholy haunted her eyes, giving her a look that was both cold and somber. But it was all disrupted by a tiny crimson mole on the tip of her nose, a single point of warmth that transformed her from merely beautiful to utterly captivating.
If I hadn't taken this mission, I would never have even breathed the same air as someone so radiant.
She was just so, so beautiful.
I wondered what kind of brilliant life she would have led if tragedy hadn’t stolen it from her.
Unable to resist, I reached out, my fingers tracing the air just above her face, outlining the arch of her brow, the line of her nose. My touch ghosted over her skin, finally coming to rest on her soft, thin lips.
Suddenly, her hand shot out and clamped around my wrist like a vice.
Her eyes snapped open, clear and sharp. They were filled with a fierce, almost wounded, disbelief.
"You have feelings for me?"
My heart hammered against my ribs like a trapped bird. I instinctively dropped my gaze, unable to meet hers.
My silence was all the confirmation she needed. Her face twisted into a mask of pure, unadulterated rage. She lunged, her other hand closing around my throat.
"I've sunk so low that a stutterer like you has a crush on me?" she hissed, her voice a low, dangerous growl. "For fuck's sake, do you even think you're worthy?"
The storm was back. She grabbed the lamp from her bedside table and hurled it at me. Then a book. Then anything else she could reach.
"Get out! Get the hell out of my sight, you disgusting thing! Get out!"
I just stood there, frozen, as the objects rained down on me.
A sour ache filled my chest, making each breath a painful struggle.
Why was she saying this? I knew my place. I knew I was nothing. Other than the secret feelings I held in my heart, I had never once crossed the line.
“I… I only… I only like you… in s-secret. Is… is that not allowed either?”
“NO!” she screamed, her face flushed with fury. She clenched her fists, taking a deep, shuddering breath. "Get out of here right now, or I swear to God I will smash your face in."
Numbly, I turned and stumbled out of the apartment, for the first time completely and utterly lost.
4
I’ve always considered myself to have thick skin.
Elara had put me through hell over the years, but nothing had ever hurt like this.
My face burned with shame and humiliation. I buried my head in my hands, a wave of regret washing over me.
Why did I let her see? Why?
The plan had always been simple: stay with her, help her heal, and then, once she was whole again, quietly disappear from her life.
Just as I was sinking into my misery, the System appeared, its familiar blue interface glowing in the dark.
It paused. 【Why are you crying?】
It ran a quick scan of Elara’s vitals and then chirped in surprise.
【Wow! Elara’s psychological state is almost back to healthy levels! Her manic episodes have been much less frequent lately. You’re amazing!】
When I didn’t respond, the System went quiet for a moment, its light flickering as it processed the recent events. Then, it burst out in a string of angry code.
【But that Elara is too much! Yes, she has an illness, but does she even have a heart? For over a thousand days, you’ve been there, taking care of her every single need! How could she say something like that to you?!】
I finally looked up, wiping my swollen eyes. "It's... it's not her fault."
"My feelings for her... helping her... that was my choice. She doesn't have to... to accept me." I let out a bitter laugh. "Maybe... no matter where I am... I'm just not worthy of being loved."
The System processed my raw emotions and fell silent, unable to offer any comfort.
【Well, if you can’t take it anymore, just let me know,】 it finally said, its voice soft.
I nodded, grateful for the small kindness.
It’s okay, I told myself one more time.
Once Elara’s mental health score reached a stable, healthy level, I would leave.
And I would never bother her again.
5
I spent the night on a park bench.
The next morning, as always, I went back to the apartment to make Elara breakfast. As I stepped inside, I was greeted by the familiar sight of chaos. The living room was a disaster zone.
I swallowed hard and placed the groceries I’d bought on the one clear spot on the counter. Just as I was about to start cleaning, Elara’s voice cut through the silence from behind me.
“Where were you? Why didn’t you come home last night?”
I jumped, startled. I turned to see her looming over me, her face a dark thundercloud. Fresh blood was seeping from the bandages on her knuckles, dripping onto the floor.
I frowned, instinctively reaching for her hand, but she slapped my hand away.
“I asked you a question. Why didn’t you come home?”
“Y-you… you told me to… to get out.”
Elara sneered. “So I tell you to get out and you actually leave? Where did you sleep? Whose house were you at? Who were you with?”
Her rapid-fire questions left me bewildered. “The p-park. By myself.”
She stared at me for a few seconds, and the fire in her eyes seemed to flicker and die down. “Fine. From now on, you don’t stay out all night. Understood?”
She held out her hand. “Bandage it.”
I nodded obediently and quickly redressed her wounds.
That morning, Elara ate two more bowls of oatmeal than usual. And for the next few days, she was unnervingly calm.
Just as I was starting to think things might settle into a new, fragile peace, something shifted.
One morning, Elara emerged from her room wearing a tailored suit, looking determined.
“Get changed. You’re coming with me.”
“...Where are we going?”
“We can’t just live off my savings forever. An old family friend of my parents is hosting a gala tonight. He invited me.”
A genuine smile spread across my face. “Okay.”
Elara was taking the first step back into the world.
She was getting better.
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