The Extra Wants Control - Chapter 95: Prince Neveah Nox

Just because she glanced at him once more in the crowd, she inexplicably “seduced” Capital's young Mr. Peary. So—“Uncle, I'm stuck at the police station.” Soon, a large group of black-clad, gun-holding people stormed into the police station, nearly blowing it sky-high.“Uncle, someone says she is your wife and told me to take good care of her.” In an instant, the woman disappeared, and a certain man physically demonstrated to her that he only has one wife.In public, he is the cold and ruthless CEO of MC. In private, he is a rogue husband who tries every means to coax her into bed.One day, a certain woman couldn't stand it any longer, clutching her waist and sobbing, “You're sleeping in the study tonight.”The man hooked his lips, “You seduced me first, you proposed to me, you wanted to have a child...”

war, blood, and betrayal carved him into something else. A legend. A killer. A mercenary whose name struck fear into both criminals and so-called heroes alike.But now, the world had changed. Lines blurred between right and wrong, between justice and vengeance. Should he step into the light, wear the mask of a hero, and fight for a cause greater than himself? Or should he embrace the darkness that had always been his home, a place where morality was just another illusion?“Don’t box me in with your shallow ideas of good and evil,” he muttered, his voice calm but edged with danger. “I do what I want, when I want.”The air was thick with tension as he moved like a shadow through the dimly lit room. The writer had no time to react—one moment, he was scribbling nonsense about legends and myths; the next, a cold barrel pressed against the back of his head.The figure smirked beneath his mask, eyes gleaming with something between amusement and menace.“You wanna write fiction?” he whispered. “Then let me show you how real legends are made.”A single gunshot shattered the silence.As the writer’s body slumped over the desk, the man holstered his weapon, stepping into the faint glow of a flickering neon light.“It’s that simple,” he said, his voice unwavering. “I’m Deathstroke.”

On one spring evening when I was eight years old, I, Erica, Duke of Aurelia’s daughter, realized something.