A/N: This is good, just that the lines, dialogues, and pacing have always felt wrong, so it will be re-edited.
Enjoy~
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He didn't know what happened — one moment, he was about to pay for his latest batch of refurbished princess figurines, and the next, the store was being robbed.
"You! Get down on the ground right now!"
Desmond blinked, halfway between reaching for his wallet and wondering if Aurora's hair color was supposed to be more pink or gold.
"Oh… sorry." He said it the way people apologize for bumping into someone at a grocery store, then calmly lowered himself to the ground, clutching his paper bag like a priceless heirloom.
The robber blinked back, unsure if he'd just been apologized to by a hostage. But compliance was compliance, so he moved on.
Desmond lay there quietly. Around him, people whimpered, begged, or prayed. He thought about his little princesses instead — all lined up neatly at home, probably lonely. Poor darlings.
-
In most ways, Desmond was ordinary. Stable job, decent house, paid his taxes, and talked to his plants more than he spoke to people.
He grew up with six younger sisters. That alone could warp a man's mind.
He loved them, of course. But they were the reason for… this. His "condition."
It all started when their parents left town for a month. Desmond was fourteen, the oldest of seven, with a temporary guardian and a thin grasp on sanity.
At the time, every single one of his sisters was obsessed with princesses. Princess movies, princess lunchboxes, princess toothbrushes. He couldn't open the fridge without a tiara falling out.
The guardian left for a day, and chaos reigned. By the time Desmond got out of the shower, the house looked like a royal coronation had exploded. Glitter in the hallways. Stickers on the walls. Even his room.
That was the day he snapped.
But instead of fighting it, he joined them. If you can't beat the princesses, join their court.
And somehow, it stuck. Years later, he'd turned that trauma into a hobby: collecting princess figurines from every fiction imaginable. Disney, anime, fairytales — if she wore a crown, she belonged in his castle.
-
Back in the store, Desmond was still hugging his bag like a father holding his newborn.
"Hey! What's in the bag, man? You're holding it like it's your baby!" one of the robbers asked.
Desmond sighed. "Are you almost done? I really need to go home."
Everyone — robbers and hostages alike — stopped to look at him.
The robber laughed nervously, walked over, and yanked the bag away.
"Haha! What the hell is this? Princess dolls?"
"Figurines," Desmond corrected politely.
The robber stared, confused.
"They're collectibles," Desmond continued. "Been saving them since I was fifteen. Chores, yard work, babysitting — all for those beauties. They make me happy, hurt no one, and sparkle better than most people's personalities. Can I go home now?"
Silence. Even the cash-register guy paused mid-pack.
The young robber smirked, desperate to feel dominant again. "You for real? Dolls?"
"They're not dolls," Desmond said. "They're the purest form of happiness capitalism can buy."
That's when the boy snapped. He dropped the bag and stomped on it.
Crunch.
Porcelain, glass, dreams — all shattered at once.
Everyone froze.
The robber grinned, waiting for the man to cry. But Desmond just looked down. Calm. Still. Empty.
Then, softly: "Did it feel good?"
"What?"
"Crushing someone else's hard work. Makes you feel powerful, huh?"
The boy bristled. "You talk too much, old man."
Desmond tilted his head. "And you think too little."
He smiled — not kindly. "You know what you are, kid? A disappointment. You eat, sleep, and breathe, but it's all just background noise. You're a waste of protein. Even trash gets recycled. You? You just rot, decay, poison and contaminate the very earth you tread on, a pure profound waste of sperm."
The boy's gun hand trembled. He stepped closer. Mistake.
What happened next was fast, loud, and entirely unprintable.
By the time it was over, the store was silent except for the sound of hostages quietly reconsidering their life choices. The robbers were on the floor, wailing, missing an assortment of limbs, while Desmond — bloodied but eerily calm — walked out carrying his crushed paper bag.
Forty-five minutes later, Desmond sat in his home office — or, as he called it, The Throne Room.
It was a glittering museum of royalty: glass shelves lined with princess figurines, posters of magical castles, and certificates from children's charity events.
One read:"To Our One and Only Prince Charming — Mr. Desmond Hel."
He looked pale, sweating. His shirt was now more red than white.
"Guess I'm rusty. Three bullets. Not bad for a day off."
He limped to the empty shelf and gently poured the shattered figurines onto it. "There you go, girls. Home at last."
He sat back, smiling faintly.
"Sorry for not bringing you back in one piece. But don't worry—your enemies aren't, either."
He coughed, blood on his lips, and chuckled. "Heh. What a day."
As the room dimmed, his gaze drifted to the wall again. "Prince Charming, huh?" He grinned lazily. "No. I'm the dragon. The one who hoards all the princesses. Defends them. Loves them. Keeps them safe."
His breathing slowed.
And when the police finally arrived, they found him sitting peacefully, surrounded by shattered glass, porcelain smiles, and a grin that looked far too content for a corpse.
After all, he'd died exactly where he wanted to be.
Among his princesses.
-
The funeral took place on a bright, windless day — the kind of day Desmond would have hated because the sun made the figurines too reflective for proper viewing.
His family gathered in silence. Six women stood in the front row, his sisters — grown now, but still carrying faint traces of the chaos that shaped them. One of them clutched a tiny figurine of princess Bell; another wore a pin shaped like a tiara. None of them spoke at first.
Behind them sat a few old friends from his army days, the ones who hadn't believed he'd really left the service for a "private collection management career."
Further back, the survivors of the robbery watched quietly. They'd been interviewed, medicated, and counseled, but no therapy could quite erase the memory of what they'd seen.
When people asked them what happened that day, their answers were always the same:
"It wasn't a man. It was like a storm — a violent, deliberate storm that walked on two legs and spoke softly."
Some said they saw him smile the entire time. Others swore he was humming a Disney theme song.
The priest's voice carried over the crowd, gentle and uncertain. "Desmond Hel… was many things. A soldier. A friend. A brother. A collector."
At the word collector, several people coughed to hide their laughter.
His youngest sister stepped forward, tears streaking her cheeks. "He wasn't crazy," she said. "He just… saw beauty in things the world thought silly. He protected it. Even when no one else did."
Her voice broke, and she placed a small glass figurine on the casket — a cracked Snow White, lovingly glued together.
Off to the side, three men in dark suits stood apart from the crowd, murmuring quietly.
"Called it," one said with a smirk. "Told you he'd get himself killed for those princesses one day."
Another chuckled. "You remember that op in Kyiv? He carried three of them in his pack. Said they brought him luck."
The third man, a grizzled veteran with a scar across his jaw, raised his cup slightly. "Luck, my ass. He made his own. Carried those things like they were medals. We all thought he was nuts until he saved our hides."
"Yeah," the first man said, grinning faintly. "And every time before a firefight, he'd whisper something stupid like—"
All three said it together, voices overlapping with laughter and ache:
"Friendship is magic."
They burst out laughing — the kind of laughter that hides pain behind memory.
The priest continued the final rites.
"May his soul find peace and his treasures follow him to the next life."
The wind picked up suddenly, brushing past the mourners, making the flowers flutter. One of the sisters swore she heard a faint chuckle in it — the same amused sigh Desmond used to make when he polished his figurines.
The three old soldiers lifted their flasks in salute.
"To Desmond Hel," the scarred one said. "Our most eccentric, most dangerous, and most loyal leader. The man who saved the world in the shadows more times than we can count."
"And may his royal court," added another, smiling crookedly, "be filled with as many princesses as there are stars in the universe."
They drank, the burn of whiskey chasing away the chill.
As the sun dipped, the light caught the shards of the small figurine on the casket — tiny reflections scattering across the gathered faces like glitter.
It was almost as if the princesses themselves were watching, sparkling approval from beyond.