The Fake Warlock

Villains are not born

They say villains are not born—they are forged by society.

But mine was not forged by strangers.

Mine was shaped by the very people I trusted the most.

I was betrayed by the woman I had served faithfully my entire life.

My name is Steven Shawn. I once believed in the balance of the universe, in the laws of cause and effect. I thought the world was fair—until the day I died.

But fate was not finished with me. I was given a second chance.

And that was the day my villain arc began.

…

June 15, 2025. 12:51 p.m.

I stood among people dressed in black, their faces painted with sorrow as the undertakers carried the coffin toward the grave. I studied them closely—some wept uncontrollably, others wore masks of grief without a single tear, and a few had only come for the food that would follow.

I watched as they lowered my body into the ground, and a single tear slipped down my cheek. The heavens seemed to share my grief, unleashing a sudden rain that fell in thin, relentless needles, soaking through my coat until the cold sank deep into my bones.

Most of the guests scattered to take cover, but the undertakers and I remained in the downpour. This was my last goodbye, and I intended to give it sincerely.

My wife and “children” stood in the rain as well, wailing as the final rites were performed. I paid no mind to her crocodile tears—her display was nothing but deception, an act meant to convince others of her loyalty. But when she suddenly threatened to throw herself into the grave after me, I could only ask myself: Why the hell would she do that?

As soon as my body was buried, I couldn’t hold back my grief. Memories of my life flashed before me in sharp fragments, each one cutting deeper than the last. I guess it’s time for me to leave—home is calling.

I turned to the two little ones wailing beside the grave. My heart ached as I bent down to comfort them, even though neither of them were mine. They were innocent in all this—their only crime was being born to the woman who ruined my life.

“Your father isn’t gone,” I whispered softly, wiping their tears with my thumbs. “He’s alive, watching you in secret.”

“Really?” Elena, the youngest, blinked up at me with wide, tear-streaked eyes. “But why won’t he answer when I call? Why are they covering him with sand? Will he grow back?”

She was only three, yet her questions pierced me like arrows. I forced a smile and brushed her hair back gently. “You won’t see him anymore, but he’ll always be here—watching you grow, protecting you in secret. So don’t be sad, little one, or you’ll make him sad too. Be strong, and let him know you’re his brave girl.”

Elena sniffled, then nodded. A small, trembling smile broke through her tears. “I’ll always make him happy,” she promised, hugging me tightly. “Thank you, Uncle.”

I turned to her brother, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Protect your sister with everything you have. She’s the only family you’ve got left.” He nodded solemnly, and I gave his back a reassuring pat before standing to walk away.

But then—

“Wait!”

The voice froze me in place. Familiar. Venomous. My whole body trembled as she approached, that wide, practiced smile plastered across her face. She was still beautiful—too beautiful. Even without the paint of makeup, her face glowed with natural allure, and her voluptuous figure was proof enough that I’d once had an eye for good things.

“Mrs. Shawn,” I greeted, forcing a smile of my own, masking the storm boiling inside me.

“Are you a friend of Steven?” she asked, her eyes narrowing as though she were trying to place my face.

“No,” I replied smoothly, masking the truth. “We only met once or twice during business meetings.”

“You’re a business partner then,” she said, her expression easing. The smile returned to her lips, though I noticed how her gaze lingered on me—stealing glances, studying my features. Perhaps she wondered why a man who barely knew her husband seemed so shattered, so grief-stricken, at his funeral.

“Would you like to join us for a casserole?” she offered, gesturing toward the house.

I hesitated, but eventually followed her inside. Not because of her invitation, but because I hadn’t yet found who I was looking for—the true reason I was here. The one who had taken my life… and the weapon he used.

I remembered it clearly. A black Toyota Corolla with the plate number DMC 4582. A California plate. Behind the wheel was a muscular man, heavy-set, with a build that could break a man in half.

It all happened on June 13th. I was walking home from the hospital, clutching the paternity test results in my hand, my thoughts spiraling. I must have looked like a ghost even then, drifting along the roadside with no sense of direction—possessed by the truth I had just uncovered.

The sky was shrouded in dark clouds, and through the gloom came the blinding glare of two headlights. The car charged at me at full speed, unstoppable, merciless. In an instant, metal met flesh, and I was hurled into the air like a kite with its string severed.

As the world spun around me, pain coursing through every nerve, I caught a final glimpse—the driver stepping out, approaching. My vision was blurred, my glasses lost somewhere in the chaos of the collision. I strained to see his face, but it slipped away from me, hidden in the haze between life and death.

My bleary eyes grew heavier, closing against my will. I fought to keep them open, but life itself felt like air slipping through my fingers—impossible to hold. At last, I surrendered, closing them in regret.

Then, with one final struggle, something pulled me back. Against all odds, I opened my eyes again—only to be met by a beautiful face hovering over mine. Her body pressed against me, her movements slow and deliberate, sending unfamiliar waves of sensation through me. The rhythm of her touch blurred my thoughts, stirring my mind with signals I could barely comprehend.