The Villain's Best Friend

Chapter 1 Iris Death

My mom used to tell me that life is unpredictable. Some moments lift you so high you think you can touch the sky; others drag you down without warning. She always reminded me of the value of life—because we only get to live it once.

It wasn't new advice. It wasn't revolutionary. But truth doesn't need to be new; it just needs to be remembered.

That's why I have regrets.

Because...

I died.

Name: Iris P. Salvatore

Age: 20

Born: November 21, 2002

Death: September 29, 2022

Staring at my grave—white marble, freshly polished, my name carved in delicate script—sends chills through whatever remains of me. The flowers are still fresh. The soil is still dark. Seeing it with my own name engraved beneath Beloved Daughter and Sister made something inside me fracture.

That's when I realized.

I'm really dead.

Life is short. Everything has its own hourglass—that's what Mom used to say. And once the sand runs out, no one can flip it over. I wasn't prepared. How could I be? It all happened so fast. One moment I was breathing, thinking, laughing... and the next, darkness swallowed me whole.

It felt unfair. Too sudden. Too unfinished.

But when I look back at my life, I realize something else: breathing had never really been easy for me. Living wasn't effortless. And in the blink of an eye, I was gone—leaving everyone behind, watching from somewhere unseen as grief slowly loosened its grip on them.

That's life, people.

When it's your time, you're never ready. When you see yourself die, you can't carry your wealth, your pride, your achievements. We are all the same in death—empty. And in that emptiness, your sins replay like a cruel film. Fear dominates. Regret suffocates. Denial claws at reality.

I know.

Because it happened to me.

But my case is different.

Let me tell you my story.

Hi! I am Iris Salvatore—a fine arts student majoring in visual arts. The youngest in the family. The "creative one." The unexpected one.

I have twin genius brothers and a single mom.

Now, a little drama: my dad is stupid because he left us for his job. Being married to a scientist was Mom's dream come true. But reality? He f*cking loves his research more than his own family. Sick, right?

Thankfully, my brothers are nothing like him. They treat Mom and me like royalty—like we're fragile glass they'd die before letting shatter.

They both graduated with flying colors, earned their Ph.D. in meteorology, and now work at NASA. Pretty cool, right?

And then there's me.

The black sheep. The art kid. The emotional one.

But I was happy in my own way.

The day before the accident was pure happiness. Three days of workshop bliss. Paint under my nails. Laughter echoing through trees. Colors staining the edges of my world. I don't regret spending time with my family—but of course, I have regrets.

Like not punching my dad in the face.

Sorry.

It really was a great day. Our department officers organized a 3-day workshop at Amira Forest, where Art Camp is located. Surrounded by towering trees and cool mountain air, it felt like stepping into a painting before it was even painted.

The workshop focused on painting techniques—realistic landscapes, realism, depth, light, and shadow. The kind of things only art students obsess over.

On the last day, we were expected to create a landscape painting inspired by the forest itself.

(college students cheer.)

She clapped three times, her bracelets chiming lightly.

I've known Ms. Claire since I was a kid. She was once a gifted young painter here in the Philippines. I've always admired her pointillism works—thousands of tiny dots forming breathtaking scenes. To me, every piece she created was a masterpiece.

As Ms. Claire finished, a tall brown-haired man in his mid-30s stepped beside her. He looked stern. Solid. Unsmiling.

He sounded like a soldier giving commands, not supervising art students in a forest.

Later that evening—

At that moment, it felt harmless. A little rebellion. A midnight memory in the making.

I thought it would be unforgettable.

I didn't know it would be my last breath on Earth.

I only stayed there for ten minutes.

Ten.

Nobody knew there was a cliff behind that Narra tree.

That peaceful night ended my life.

(Cellphone ringing inside the tent)

(On the phone) "Hey! Where are you? Wake up! Bitch, don't make me wait!"

I ended the call.

The forest outside my tent was darker than before. The air colder. I fixed myself up quickly, brushed my hair, and splashed water on my face—trying to look alive and not like someone dragged from sleep.

When I stepped out, the night swallowed me whole.

The path toward the Narra tree was dim, lit only by the pale moon filtering through branches. Crickets chirped. Leaves rustled. My footsteps felt louder than they should.

After a few minutes, I saw it—the massive silhouette of the old Narra tree.

That meant I was close.

I walked faster when faint music reached my ears.

But something felt wrong.

It felt like someone was watching me.

crack!

The sound snapped through the silence.

Cold rushed down my spine.

My breath caught.

The voice was female. Soft. Broken. Close.

It came from near the Narra tree.

I moved toward it slowly, heart hammering in my chest.

And then I saw her.

A woman about my age. Wavy blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. Eyes blue like the deepest part of the sea. Tall. Pale. Beautiful in a way that didn't feel real.

She wore an ancient Georgian-style historical dress—ornate, layered, something out of another century.

What was she doing here? A cosplayer? At midnight? In the forest?

She stood behind the tree, tears glistening in her eyes.

I stepped closer.

Didn't look down.

Didn't notice the absence of solid ground.

I froze.

CRACK

RUMBLE

The earth gave way beneath my feet.

I fell.

There was no ground behind the Narra tree.

No soil. No roots. No safety.

Just a cliff.

Wind tore past my ears as gravity claimed me.

But—

How was she standing there?

There was no land beneath her.

And what did she mean about my destiny?

Did she mean—

My death?

F*ck.