Author POV:

Hudson threw the car door open so hard it bounced back and nearly slammed shut again, but he didn't stop.

His feet hit the pavement in a full sprint, his heartbeat louder than the sirens wailing somewhere in the city night.

His mind screamed just one name—Iris.

He took the stairs three at a time, not trusting the elevator in this godforsaken building.

The walls were stained, the air thick with the stench of cigarette smoke and mold.

The hallway was a nightmare maze— dozens of doors, each one closed and chatters echoing, as if daring him to guess wrong.

No time.

He banged his fist on the first door without thinking, hard enough to rattle it on its hinges.

The door creaked open to reveal a dazed old man reeking of cheap rum and stale sweat.

Hudson didn't bother with pleasantries. He shoved his phone forward, the photo of Iris glowing in the screen light.

"This girl. Have you seen her?!" he barked, his voice sharp, cracking with desperation.

The man blinked slowly, squinting. "Uh...yeah...second floor...no.....yeah, yeah. Second floor, first room. I thi—"

Hudson was already gone, thundering up the stairs before the man could finish.

The second floor hallway was worse— dimmer, narrower, silent, the air sticky with heat.

Hudson found the door. His pulse roared in his ears.

He raised his fist to knock— then remembered his own words.

"Don't open the door for anyone."

Shit.

Without another second wasted, he reached for the Glock tucked in his waistband. One shot—BOOM.

The echo rang down the entire corridor like thunder in a tomb.

The door splintered at the lock. He kicked it open— and time froze.

There she was.

On the floor.

Barely conscious. Barely clothed. Her skin blotched with redness, fingers curled in like she didn't know what world she was in anymore.

Hudson's breath caught.

No—

No no no—

He tucked the gun back into his waist, rushing forward and dropping to his knees beside her.

"Iris?" His voice cracked. His hand hovered above her shoulder, afraid to touch, afraid to hurt, but needing to be sure she was alive.

Her inner garments clung to her damp skin, exposing too much. 

Marks littered her arms, cheeks, neck, chest, thighs— raw bruises and fingerprint-shaped red smears.

"Iris," he said again, this time a whisper, like a plea. He brushed her hair from her face, sticky with sweat, her cheeks cold and clammy.

Very gently, He gathered her in his arms and lifted her off the floor, pressing her trembling frame against his chest.

She was ice-cold and burning all at once.

He laid her on the bed, covering her with a sheet, carefully. Then he stood still for a moment, hands clenched, jaw tight, and stared down at her.

"Who the fuck touched you?" he whispered, voice trembling not from fear— but from rage.

He pulled out his phone and called Susan. His thumb was slick with sweat as it hovered over the screen.

"Susan," he said the moment Su picked up the call, not giving her time to speak.

"I need you here. Now. It's fucking urgent. Second floor, first room." He hung up without listening for a reply and shared his location with her.

He turned back to Iris. Her frame looked too small, too still. His hands hovered uselessly in the air before he forced himself to move.

Grabbing old blankets from the closet— scratchy, not ideal, but warm. 

He draped them over her gently, carefully and searched for first aid kit.

Moving fast but clinically, fingers trained by years in bloodied rooms. But this wasn't some faceless body on a table.

This was Iris. 

A girl who reminds him of a feeling of a child. A familiar girl who he lost in the past.

He found the first aid kit shoved beneath a pile of old towels in the hall.

Sitting beside her, he unscrewed the cap of the antiseptic cream with a practiced flick of his wrist.

Her skin was red—not just scraped, but flushed and irritated all over. 

Not just from scratches. From heat. From the scalding water in the shower still fogging the mirrors.

Each motion was done with a careful precision, after all he had treated cases like this before but this time it was his own ones.

Every time his hand brushed over the hot flush of her arm, he cursed internally. The redness wasn't bruising— it was scalding.

As he worked, his thoughts spiraled into a whirlpool of questions and fury.

Who could have done this to her?

Was it planned?

The ticking of the clock on the wall was maddening— each tick was another reminder for him that he couldn't turn back time, couldn't stop whatever the hell had happened to her.

Hudson's eyes darted towards the bathroom when he heard the faint hiss of water.

The door was cracked open, steam curling out like smoke from a dying fire. He stepped inside cautiously.

Her shoes were scattered—one flipped, one half-wet— and a torn dress lay crumpled just outside the shower entrance, as if she had ripped it off in a panic.

The mirror was fogged. The sink had faint pinkish residue near the rim.

And the air was hot.

Too hot.

He stepped in, wrapped the curtain around his hand, and yanked the shower knob off.

The hiss of water stopped, leaving behind a terrible stillness. The kind that builds between lightning and thunder.

Hudson stared for a moment, just taking in the scene. 

She'd tried to burn herself clean. Not wash. Not rinse. Burn.

His ears peaked up when he heard the front door opening sound and quickly went out of the bathroom.

Soon, their eyes met across the hall. Susan raised an eyebrow— confused, alert.

His expression was unreadable. His jaw was locked, shoulders tense, and his voice, when he finally spoke, was clipped and low.

"Change her clothes. Check her body," he ordered, walking out of the room, without looking at her again.

Susan frowned but said nothing. Something in his tone—cold, mechanical—sent a ripple down her spine.

She stepped into the room, expecting just another case.

But then her breath hitched.

The moment she saw the girl lying limp under the rough blankets— bruised, pale, limbs curled in on themselves— Susan's eyes widened.

Her lips parted, stunned. She turned to glance back at Hudson.

He met her eyes and gave a single nod. Silent. Grim. Final.

Susan's throat tightened. She knew what that nod meant: yes, it's her. yes, like that.

Without another word, Hudson dropped himself onto the couch like his body was no longer his own.

"If there's any bleeding," he said, staring blankly ahead, "call me."

Susan closed the door behind her.

For a second, she just stood there, fists clenched so tightly her knuckles turned bone white.

The rage bubbled inside her, slow and toxic, but she forced it down. 

Iris didn't need fury right now. She needed hands. Gentle, steady hands.

Susan moved toward the bed and slowly peeled back the coarse blanket.

Her eyes were shut tightly, lashes clumped, cheeks stained with dampness and fingerprints and a lip cut.

Susan's voice softened as she knelt beside her. "Iris.... I'm just gonna help you get changed, okay?"

No response.

Susan bit her lip hard, then quickly went to the closet and whatever clean cloth came in front of her sight she picked it up.

She moved methodically, starting with damp undergarments—gently cutting it off, trying not to jostle her too much. 

Iris flinched at first touch, a low whimper escaping her lips.

Su cursed under her breath when she saw the faint red abrasions on her inner thighs— pressure marks, as if Iris had been curled into herself for hours, afraid to move.

She cleaned her gently with warm towel, working with slow, practiced hands and put on a top and a panty.

The entire process took longer than it should have. Susan checked every inch of skin for bleeding, bruising, any signs of internal injury.

Once Iris was dressed, she rewrapped the blanket around her and sat beside her for a moment.

                          Hudson's voice sliced through the thick silence like a blade, sharp and edged with panic the moment Susan stepped into the hall. "Is everything okay?"

Despite the calmness she tried to project, her heart was pounding with a steady, uneasy rhythm.

"No," she said finally. "Not really."

"It's confirmed," Susan continued, her voice firm, almost clinical. "No penetration. Whoever tried to touch her... they didn't succeed."

Hudson exhaled, his body slumping for just a fraction of a second— relief flashing in his eyes.

But Susan didn't move. Her gaze didn't soften.

"But," she added coldly, "that's not a reason to relax."

Hudson stiffened again.

"She's covered in marks. Fingerprints. Bruises. Scratches. I don't think she even knows how much her body's reacting. She's half-conscious."

His throat bobbed as he swallowed. "Where?"

Susan folded her arms. "Neck. Chest. Waist. A few more across the inner thighs, probably from squeezing and digging fingernails and a lip cut."

Hudson didn't speak. His fists clenched so tightly the veins in his forearms bulged.

"I cleaned her up," she continued, voice like flint. "Checked every inch of her skin. No tearing, no bleeding—but that doesn't mean there isn't internal bruising. We'll know more once she wakes up."

A beat of silence fell between them. Not the peaceful kind.

It was thick. Charged. Like a thunderstorm holding its breath.

Susan's jaw tensed. She wasn't just a field medic but she had seen things—horrible, unspeakable things, inflicted by men who had nothing left of their humanity.

Her eyes narrowed as she looked at Hudson. "Who did this?" Her voice was low, but it cracked with rage.

It wasn't a question.

It was a demand.

Hudson looked away, jaw clenched so hard it ticked. His voice, when it came, was hoarse and barely above a whisper.

"I don't know."

"Iris called me," he said, sighing deeply. "She was crying, panicking and rambling in fear. I traced the call. I broke every red light to get here. And when I walked into that room..."

His voice trailed off, and for a moment, he looked haunted.

"The room was upside down," he muttered. "Broken glass, overturned chair. She was on the floor, completely soaked. And sitting..."

He couldn't finish.

Susan did it for him. "In her damp undergarments."

He nodded slowly.

Susan hummed under her breath, low and unreadable, as she stepped toward the bedroom.

Hudson stood rooted to the spot, his body aching with a restlessness he couldn't shake.

His mind wouldn't stop.

Was it too late?

Had he failed her?

"She's running a fever," Susan said finally, her voice quieter now. "Not dangerously high. But enough to make her delirious if it spikes."

Hudson nodded absently, running a hand through his hair, which was damp slightly.

There were too many gaps. Too many what- ifs. 

The kind of unknowns that ate men alive if they let themselves feel too long.

He swallowed the dread clawing its way up his throat.

Then—he said it.

"Are you sure... she's not... raped?"

The word felt ugly in his mouth. It scraped his teeth raw, leaving a bitter taste on his tongue.

Susan turned slowly to him, eyes narrowing.

"No," she answered quickly, automatically. Then her brows furrowed. 

"I mean—no, not from what I could see. Nothing that confirms that level of trauma."

Hudson let out a breath. Not relief— just a pause in the torment.

"But," she added, voice flattening into something cautious, "that doesn't mean she's okay."

"What are we going to tell her when she wakes up?" he asked quietly, barely above a whisper. "She's going to be devastated."

Susan tilted her head, her brows drawing together in confusion. "What do you mean by that?"

Hudson's jaw clenched, and he shifted uncomfortably under her gaze.

He had never been good at explaining things like this— especially about Iris.

"She doesn't know," he muttered, looking down at the floor, as if it would offer him better words. "About... sex. What it is. What it means."

Susan blinked. "What?"

"I mean it," Hudson said, lifting his gaze, guilt etched across every line of his face. "She doesn't understand it like we do. She doesn't have the vocabulary. The... framework."

Susan's confusion deepened. "You're saying she doesn't know what rape is?"

"She called it a 'bad touch,'" Hudson said, his voice low. "That's the term she used. When two men tried to—" He stopped. "In the valley."

"I was treating her elbow wounds, and she told me like she was trying to explain a scraped knee. She doesn't have the language. She just knows it's something awful. Horrifying. Something shameful."

Susan's face had gone pale. Her fingers curled tightly at her sides.

"She doesn't even know what was almost done to her," Hudson continued. "She just feels... violated. Wrong. And she won't know why."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Susan's lips parted, but no sound came out. She had dealt with trauma, with girls who had been torn apart and stitched together again. But this was different.

Because Iris wasn't just hurt— she was naïve.

"She's seventeen," Hudson said after a long pause. "And I think she still thinks sex is just... something that happens to married people. Like a bedtime hug. Or... I don't know. Some cartoon explanation. Like she was never told."

Susan sat down slowly, the weight of that realization hitting her harder than any visible wound.

"That's why," Hudson added quietly, "we can't screw this up. She's not like everyone else. If she finds out what almost happened—and really understands it— it'll panic her and it will lead to anything."

Suddenly, the door burst open with a jarring bang and sliced clean through the heavy silence in the apartment.

Quinn stumbled in.

The club's chaos still clung to her— cheap perfume, sweat, alcohol.

Her sequined top shimmered in the dim light like broken glass.

She froze at the threshold, wide-eyed, swaying slightly, blinking hard as if trying to align two versions of reality.

"What the fuck happened?" she slurred, confusion slicing through her voice as her gaze swept the disordered room and finally landed on Susan's tense posture and Hudson's deathly still form.

Hudson moved forward slowly, like a bomb preparing to detonate.

"Where the fuck were you?" he growled. His voice wasn't raised, but the venom in it could've stripped skin.

His shoulders were squared, fists clenched at his sides, barely suppressing the storm in his chest. Every step he took toward her pulsed with danger.

Quinn blinked. "W-What? Where's Iris?"

"I asked where you were!" His voice snapped like a whip, slicing through her drunken fog.

Quinn flinched. "I was... I went out," she stammered. "At the club—"

"With Iris?" Susan's voice sliced in, cold and direct, her eyes narrowed like a surgeon preparing to dissect.

Quinn's lips parted, and she nodded slowly. "Yeah. Where is she? I saw her missed call,"

Hudson's jaw ticked, a tendon twitching in his neck. "Where was she when you last saw her?" he hissed.

Susan's patience was wearing thin. "Did Iris come back here alone?" she demanded, her eyes narrowing on Quinn.

Quinn shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "No... she was with Caleb."

The name was a trigger.

Hudson froze for half a breath, then every muscle in his body went rigid.

Slowly, deliberately, his hand moved to his side, pushing back his coat to reveal the matte black grip of the pistol holstered at his hip.

The metal glinted in the hallway light like the edge of a guillotine.

"Where is his room," Hudson asked, low and sharp.

Quinn's eyes went wide. "Wait, wait— What's happening—!"

"Quinn." Susan stepped forward and snapped her fingers in her face. "Where is his room?"

Quinn's mouth opened, dry and trembling. "last one at the end of the hallway, left side."

Hudson didn't wait.

He turned, boots pounding against the wooden floor, Quinn scrambling behind him in panic. 

There were voices downstairs—raised, nervous, confused—but he didn't stop.

He knew the shot he fired earlier might have drawn attention, but that didn't matter now. Only one thing mattered.

Finding Caleb.

"Why is this floor rooms empty?" Hudson asked over his shoulder, voice like stone.

"Ah...There... there are rumors," Quinn whispered, hugging her arms around herself. "People say this floor is cursed. A lot of people have died here before. So...many people avoid staying on these floors."

Hudson said nothing.

He reached the door Quinn had pointed to and knocked—once. Then again, harder.

It opened slowly.

A young man, Caleb's roommate, stood in the frame, dull-eyed and expressionless like a man too used to ignoring things.

"Where's Caleb?" Quinn asked nervously, trying to keep her voice steady.

"Passed out in bed," the roommate replied with a shrug, his words lazy, like this was all just background noise.

"When did he get back?" Hudson pressed, his eyes locking onto the guy with the force of a predator.

The roommate scratched his head lazily. "Dunno. Just now?"

"That's not right," Quinn said quickly, brows furrowed. "He left the club with Iris past 7. They should've been back before me."

The air seemed to thin around them.

Hudson didn't speak. He didn't threaten. He just stared at the roommate for one beat too long, making the silence ring louder than words.

Then he turned on his heel, striding back the way he came.

Interrogating his roommate wouldn't get him answers, it would only create a web of confusion and unwanted questions.

Inside the apartment, Susan stood near the doorway, eyes wild. The panic on her face wasn't dramatic—it was practiced. Contained. But it was real.

"He's coming," she said.

Hudson didn't break stride. "Who?"

"Ace," she said quickly. "He called. He'll be here in ten minutes."

Hudson froze mid-step, head snapping toward her.

"What?" The word ripped from his throat, more bark than question.

"What the fuck, Susan! Don't tell me you rambled something about Iris—"

"I didn't!" she snapped back, already bracing herself.

"I didn't say anything! He asked Aiden where you were," her voice faltered, " and Aiden told him I was going to Newark to meet you. And....well, Ace put two and two together. Now he's on his way."

Hudson's jaw clenched tight enough to crack teeth. "Perfect," he hissed, dragging both hands down his face.

Susan groaned. "Why the fuck is Ace all of a sudden so willing to come to where you are instead of waiting? Like—what, is he missing you today instead of slapping your face across a table?

Hudson shot her a glare. "Don't joke right now."

"I'm not!" she snapped, throwing her hands up. "He left the mansion fifteen minutes ago. I checked. He's probably breaking every traffic law in Jersey just to get here."

A muscle jumped in Hudson's jaw as he exhaled slowly. It didn't help. "We are so fucking screwed."

"No shit," Susan muttered.

"He'll try to kill us," Hudson said grimly, almost to himself, voice low and weighted with certainty. "If we don't figure out who touched her— tonight."

He rubbed his face with both hands, dragging them down until his skin burned.

This wasn't panic. Not really.

It wasn't fear of Ace himself— it was fear of what Ace would become, if he lost control.

Because this wasn't some girl in a morgue with no name. 

This wasn't some fling Ace forgot the moment she walked out the door.

This was Iris.

The girl Ace would've carved his own ribs out for, if she asked.

The girl he couldn't even speak about without setting a glass down too hard, without clenching his jaw like his chest physically hurt.

The only person Ace had ever looked at like she was more than blood. More than logic. More than life.

And tonight— she was bruised, scratched, near-hypothermic and unconscious.

And nobody knew who did it except her.

Quinn, still planted awkwardly by the door like she wasn't sure if she should stay or run, finally found her voice.

"What happened to Iris?" she asked softly, eyes darting toward the closed bedroom door.

Hudson's head turned to her slowly, his tone flat but deadly. "Quinn. Bedroom. Now."

Her lips parted in protest.

"Don't say anything. Don't make a fucking sound. Make sure Iris stays asleep at every cost."

Quinn shrank into herself, nodded mutely, and slipped inside the bedroom, the weight of the situation finally sinking into her bones.

The moment her eyes landed on Iris's limp form, all her casual panic increased, guilt and fear settled in. 

She shut the door without another word, understanding the situation.

Hudson slumped onto the couch, his eyes flicked to the front door, then to his watch, then to nothing at all.

"We have some more minutes left," he muttered.

"Don't tell him anything," Susan said, arms folded, voice hard now. "Not until he finds out."

Hudson snorted bitterly. "You think he's going to not, if he saw us here, in this room?"

"But why is he coming here so eagerly?" she asked, turning to face him. "I mean—there's another reason, right?"

Hudson leaned forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped tight. "Ace knows Iris is in Newark. And he's suspicious she's with us. He's coming to check. Only check."

Susan narrowed her eyes. "How do you know that?"

Hudson shot her a dry look. "It's not like I've lived with him for, I don't know, years," he said, his tone laced with sarcasm. "Trust me. I know how he thinks. Psycho bastard."

"Yeah, and you're the moron who kept covering for him," Susan muttered under her breath.

Hudson rolled his eyes, too drained to argue.

Susan folded her arms across her chest, frustration brewing. "I told him to stop going after Iris. I told  him this wasn't good for either of them."

Hudson let out a bitter laugh. "That's cute. You think he listens."

"—And it's not like I haven't been telling him that since the beginning," he muttered.

There was a beat of silence before Susan chuckled— dark and short.

"What?" Hudson asked, confused.

"You know how people say soulmates feel it? Like— when their other half is hurt, something in them just knows?"

He gave her a long, skeptical stare.

"I mean... maybe he got that feeling. Maybe he doesn't know why he's coming, but deep down—he feels something instinct."

"You sound more childish than Iris."

"Oh, come on," Susan snapped, throwing her hands up in the air. 

"You saw it. All of a sudden, Ace wants to come here? Out of nowhere? No context, no warning, no reason. Like some damn sixth sense went off or something."

She stood, pacing a step, then gestured toward the ceiling like the universe itself was watching.

"Sometimes... I think nature just decides. Decides someone needs to know. You know how animals sense earthquakes? Birds go quiet, dogs panic, the wind changes. It's not magic—it's pressure. Something shifting."

She pointed toward the hallway now, toward where Ace hadn't arrived yet but was undoubtedly on his way. 

"He's feeling the shift. It's like the world screamed, and he's the only one who heard it. Like every molecule in the air shoved him toward us. Toward her."

She let out a breath, rubbed her chin "He's not coming because he wants to meet you. He's coming because somewhere, something tore inside him the second she broke."

Then, without looking at her, he raised a hand—sharp, firm. 

"Don't," he said flatly. "Just don't."

Susan's lips pressed into a thin line.

"Just pray Iris doesn't wake up when he gets here..."

"Because she will wake up crying," Hudson continued quietly, his voice stripped of all sarcasm, "and if he sees it—"

"Yeah." Her reply was nothing but a breath, barely audible.

The silence returned, denser than before.

Tick.

The old wall clock clicked again.

Tick.

Each second hit like a hammer. Time, merciless and cruel, dragging them toward the moment they all feared.

Iris stirred once in her sleep. Quinn, seated stiffly at the edge of the bed, tensed like someone had slapped her.

She leaned forward, brushing a sweaty hand near Iris's blanket, but didn't dare touch her.

Her lips moved silently, praying—pleading—that the girl would stay asleep, just a little longer.

Hudson walked back and forth, his fists clenched and his eyes kept cutting to the door, each glance more tense than the last.

Susan sat with her back straight, arms folded so tightly across her chest as her foot bounced with barely restrained nerves.

They have moved the disheveled clothes to the bedroom and broken glasses under the table and organized the room, making sure it looked clean instead of disoriented.

Ten minutes passed.

Then—

Bzzzzt.

Susan's phone lit up.

A soft vibration against the wooden table. A flash of white light across the cracked screen. 

Hudson stopped mid-stride.

Susan reached out slowly, her fingers brushed the screen.

She hesitated, then swiped to answer and put the phone to her ear.

"Hello?"

A pause.

Then: "What's the room number?"

Ace's voice was like ice on a scalpel—razor-sharp, cold, surgical. No warmth. No question. Just a statement in the shape of a demand.

Susan's eyes flicked toward Hudson.

"Second floor... first room."

There was a click.

The call cut.

Hudson exhaled like he'd been holding his breath for a year. "Did he say anything else?"

She shook her head slowly. "Nothing."

"Good." He started pacing again, faster this time, movements twitchier. "That means he doesn't suspect anything yet."

"Or he does," Susan muttered, "and he's just pretending not to."

Ace POV:

Why the hell are they here?

My jaw clenched as I scanned the hallways. Newark. Of all fucking places. This wasn't our turf, wasn't even close.

Hudson and Su creeping around here like rats in a church was setting off every siren in my brain.

The hallway was packed—muffled voices, doors creaking, someone shouting in Spanish from a stairwell. 

The chaos grated on my nerves like sandpaper across my teeth.

I hated crowded places. I hated dirty crowded places even more.

Everyone stared at me as I walked up the stairs, scanning the surroundings.

Of course they stare. Black wool coat. Gloves. No smile. 

I looked like someone who either owned the building or planned to burn it down. 

Tsk. There aren't even CCTV cameras.

Fantastic. A crime scene waiting to happen, and no footage. Not even a dusty lens blinking in the corner.

If Iris was anywhere near this place—Hell forbid—I'd gut someone. I didn't even know who yet.

I'd start with the landlord.

I silently hoped that Iris had no part in this godforsaken area. This place reeked of mold, cigarettes, and forgotten lives.

It screamed danger for her life. The very thought of her being anywhere near this felt wrong.

As I reached the second floor, I knocked on the first room. It echoed like a warning shot.

After a moment, the door creaked open, revealing Su, her face—guarded. Too Calm. Not the usual sass or snark.

Without exchanging words, I stepped inside, my eyes immediately drawn to the dim, almost suffocating atmosphere that filled the small flat.

The room was smelling like sulfur and garlic—a nauseating combo—and there was an unsettling familiarity in the air, something faint and elusive. Like adrenaline. Or bleach.

My eyes scanned everything in a second— instinct.

Table. Couch. Carpet fibers disturbed and damp. Kitchen light flickering. A window half-opened. A damp, crumbled blanket tossed over a plastic chair.

I turned to them, my eyes narrowing. "What's with the police outside?" I asked, keeping my voice low but sharp.

I'd seen the squad cars parked outside, flashing lights bouncing off the walls as officers loitered nearby. 

And I didn't like coincidences.

Hudson shrugged, his movements casual, but there was tension in the way he stood beside a small table, rummaging through drawers.

"What are you doing here?" Hudson spoke, stuffing some keys inside his pocket.

"What are you doing here?" I asked, sitting on the couch, sighing deeply.

My eyes roamed, searching eagerly. "I didn't know you owned a crappy room like this."

"Well... for emergencies. I keep my old files here," Hudson said, going into the kitchen and opening the fridge.

My gaze flicked between Su and Hudson. "What are you doing here, Miss. Susan?"

"Accompanying him, Mr. Ace Salvatore," she shrugged her shoulders.

I hummed and shot Hudson a hard look, my suspicion growing.

"Let's go, I've got what I need," Hudson announced abruptly, shooting a glance at Su.

She nodded in silent agreement, as if they'd rehearsed this moment.

Without waiting for my response, they moved toward the door, their haste barely concealed.

I didn't move. I didn't buy it either. That silent choreography between them—too smooth.

Hudson never moved fast unless it was surgery, bullets, or guilt.

As they departed, leaving me to grapple with my swirling thoughts, a wave of melancholy washed over me.

Maybe I had hoped, deep down, that Iris would be with them. But there was no sign of her.

Of course not.

That would have been too easy—too merciful.

I sat there, staring at my gloved hands.

"Ace," Hudson called, making me sigh.

I stood up and walked into the kitchen.

Opening the fridge, I saw some veggies, an egg tray, some leftover food and water bottles and beer stash.

"You do keep stacked up the fridge for the room you use for storing your so-called old files," I said, raising my eyebrows.

Hud came inside, looking at me coldly. "That's not something you should be concerned about," he shot back.

I tilted my head, smirking faintly. Defensive. That was good.

"Hmm..." I trailed off, taking a step toward the closed door. Maybe a bedroom.

Just one more step. Just one knob turn.

The handle stared back at me like it wanted me to try.

But then—

"Ace, I am getting late," Hudson murmured as he glanced at his watch.

Late. For what? A guilt seminar?

"Well... late for what?" I drawled, turning to him with one brow arched.

He didn't answer—just clicked his tongue like I was an annoying kid who wouldn't drop the toy aisle tantrum, and jerked his head toward the exit.

Ah. The evasion tactic. Cheap, but effective—if only I were anyone else.

The disdain in me was biblical. But I didn't push. Not yet.

I sighed, slow and deliberate, and took a step forward, toward the exit.

Maybe she wasn't here.

That would make sense, right?

A little guilt, a little curiosity, a lot of paranoia— All perfectly normal symptoms for a man like me.

I really thought my little Mini would be here.

Tucked into their little circle like a wilted petal someone had scooped up off a crime scene.

But no.

Of course not.

Thankfully and sullenly not.

So now, I wait.

Till tonight.

To find her.

Because I returned to New York this morning—dragged myself back from dealing with my tribe's mess and men with too many weapons and too little IQ—only to realize that the mess I left behind was bigger.

Much bigger.

Louder. Quieter. Deadlier.

Because I haven't seen her. 

I haven't touched her. I don't know if she's eating, if she's sleeping, if she's breathing right, if someone dared to look at her wrong—

If someone dared to hurt her.

And I haven't contacted her. Not once.

Not even a message. Not even a call.

And no, don't pat me on the back. It wasn't maturity. It was control.

The sharp, surgical kind of control that makes you feel like you're doing the right thing. 

But you're not in reality.

I may have deleted her number from my phone a year ago, cowardly—

But please—

I still remember those digits better than I remember the number of men I've buried.

And that's saying something.

Because I was giving her space.

Space.

Right. That little joke again.

I mean yeah— last time, I let her go.

Like an idiot. Like a dog that dropped the bone because it bit too hard.

Pathetic.

But hey, I can make it up to her.

I will make it up to her.

Because let's not forget—

I didn't build an empire crawling through blood, concrete, and betrayal by not being a stubborn, shameless bitch.

And if getting her back means torching every rule, every limit, every thread of my self-respect?

So be it.

I never liked those things anyway when it comes to her.

Then—-

Something stopped me—a faint sound, barely audible, like a whimper. I hesitated, my brow furrowing.

I turned, scanning the room for the first time like I gave a damn about interior design.

It wasn't just messy. It was cluttered with intent.

It was...girlish.

Not Hudson. Not Susan.

"Whose room is this?" I asked, my voice low, flat, slicing the air as I looked from Su to Hudson.

"Mine," Hudson said. "Let's go before—"

I raised my hand. He shut up like someone pulled a wire.

"It looks more like a girl's room than a man's," I muttered, eyes flicking across the vanity, the scatter of objects.

A perfume bottle tucked behind a empty photo frame. A lavender scrunchie wrapped around the neck of a hairbrush. A water bottle half-drunk.

Hudson frowned like I'd insulted his honor. "I don't see it like that," he said, glancing around like he'd suddenly noticed it too.

My instincts weren't whispering anymore.

They were screaming.

"Are you hiding some girl here?" I asked, stepping toward the vanity table. I pointed.

"W—"

"You don't have to own scrunchies or lip balm. And there's no fucking way you wear a size six shoe. Or hoodies that look like they belong to someone who weighs like a raccoon."

They exchanged a glance—too fast, too trained.

Not panic.

Preparation.

"I'll tell you later," Hudson said, placing a hand on my shoulder like that meant something.

Like I was still the man who waited to be told.

He tried to steer me toward the door.

Then I heard it.

Murmurs.

Soft. So soft they might've been mistaken for air.

But I knew better.

I know the sound of a person trying not to be heard.

I know fear when it sticks to the back of the throat.

I turned around and walked toward the closed door—the only room that made the hair at the back of my neck rise.

"Ace, let's go," Hudson said again, but his voice cracked—not with urgency. With something off.

He grabbed my shoulder again. Firm. Trying to pull me.

"Let go."

I didn't even look at him. My voice came out colder than steel.

"Ace. I'm fucking serious. Let's—"

Then it came.

A cry.

Choked.

Wet.

Like something breaking mid-air.

My whole body froze. Eyes flinched like they took the hit instead of my chest.

I knew that sound. 

That exact rhythm. That exact kind of pain.

I lunged forward, but Hudson gripped my arm.

I shoved him off and went straight for the handle. Fingers white-knuckled.

I slammed the door open—

But his arm wrapped around my neck from behind, yanking me back.

His forearm crushed against my windpipe, his weight driving me two steps backward.

"Get off me, you asshole!" I snarled, voice raw with something that wasn't just rage.

It was fear.

"I'm telling you, listen to me for god's sake— let's go!" Hudson shouted.

I grit my teeth hard enough to crack bone.

He was strong.

Then I moved. Fast.

I elbowed him, sharp and brutal into his ribs.

He let out a grunt—just enough. His grip loosened.

I spun, caught his arm, twisted it.

Then—

Kicked him square in the stomach.

He staggered back, collapsing to the ground, groaning, cursing in pain.

He curled forward, one arm clutching his middle, the other dragging along the floor like he was trying to get back up— but his body refused.

I looked at Susan.

She wasn't stopping me.

Just standing there—

Panic and worry carved into her face like cracks in glass.

Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Hands twitching at her sides like she didn't know whether to reach for me or the pieces of everything about to shatter.

"What the fuck are you two up—"

"Ac.e..."

The sound.

It hit me like a bullet.

Not loud. Not sharp.

But hers.

Soft. Broken. Barely stitched together by breath.

I froze.

The air shifted. The world tilted.

My ears twitched like they were being pulled forward by a string.

I turned.

Walked fast. 

No—stumbled. Hurried. I couldn't feel my feet under me.

And then—

My entire world collapsed.

My Mini.

Sitting on the bed like a ghost that forgot how to disappear.

Broken. Small in the worst way.

The sight before me didn't just break me—

It ripped through me.

Splintered my ribs.

Shattered my heart into a million sharp, irreparable pieces.

Her face—

Her goddamn face. The one I'd memorized like scripture, like prophecy, like sin.

It was warped in pain.

Not the kind you cry through.

The kind that shatters you and leaves you breathing in pieces.

Raw. Wounded. Gone.

Her eyes...

Her eyes were bloodshot, glassy, gone.

Darkness bloomed under them like someone had dragged her through a grave and told her to keep walking.

Fingerprints—fucking fingerprints— on her throat. Raw. Red and wrong.

"Ac-e..." she sobbed again, and that sound—

That sound was a blade dragged through the meat of my chest.

I couldn't speak. Couldn't breathe. Couldn't fucking blink.

My fists were clenched so tight my nails were cutting into my palms.

Her fingers were scratching her neck—her own damn neck—as if trying to claw the memory off her skin.

Like she didn't want to live where that touch had been.

Big, helpless tears streamed down her cheeks, fingers trembling, mouth trembling like her body didn't know if it could cry or scream.

And all she did was look at me.

Like I was the last person she had.

Like I was the only reason she hadn't disappeared.

Like I was too late.

And I was.

I stepped forward. Slow. Careful.

My hands—my fucking hands—were shaking. Not with fear.

With rage.

With guilt.

With the unbearable knowledge that I should've been here.

That I wasn't.

And now—

As I neared the bed, I saw it all.

The bruises.

The marks.

The violence written across her skin like a story I hadn't been there to stop.

Fingerprints and scratches.

Red. Ugly. Everywhere.

On her throat.

On her arms.

Peeking out from under her shirt—

Her chest.

And I—

I couldn't breathe.

I couldn't fucking breathe.

There was something inside me that cracked.

Not like glass.

Like bone.

Like something permanent.

"What happened?" My voice came out rough—gravel dragged across bone—barely making it past my clenched jaw.

I was trying to stay calm. Trying.

But the fury inside me was molten, rising fast, blistering my throat.

Iris's eyes flicked up to mine. Wide. Lost.

Her pupils were blown, ringed in red.

She looked like she'd crawled out of a nightmare barefoot and bleeding—and now she couldn't tell if I was part of it or not.

"You're...really here?" she whispered, her voice shaky.

The way she said it—like I was some half-formed hallucination her brain hadn't decided to trust yet—made something in my ribcage ache.

"Iris," I said again, softer, more broken this time.

I stepped closer, slowly, like a man walking through a minefield blindfolded.

And then I sat beside her on the bed. Very slowly.

I watched her—  Every blink. Every breath. Every tremble.

If she flinched, I'd back off.

If she looked at me like she wanted to run, I'd burn myself to keep her from feeling cornered.

I studied every inch of her—every twitch of muscle, every microexpression—my body hypersensitive to any sign she didn't want me near her.

Was I too late?

Did she see me as just another threat now?

But—

She didn't flinch.

She just looked up at me. Exhausted. Shaken. Still breathing through it.

Each breath rattled—uneven, too shallow—like her body was still trying to decide if it was allowed to feel safe again.

Her lips parted slightly, like she wanted to say something else, but her voice had forgotten how.

"What happened?" I asked again.

The words fell out of me raw, gutted, soaked in dread.

They weren't even words anymore. They were begging in disguise.

Because I already knew.

Not exactly.

Not the details. Not yet.

But my body knew. My bones knew. My fists knew.

She rubbed at her eyes with trembling hands, as if trying to clear away the fog in her mind.

"He said... he wants to—" she let out a whimper.

My chest constricted like a fist had closed around my heart and squeezed.

"Hurts..." she breathed.

Her hands drifted to her stomach—grasping at it, curling slightly forward

She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them again. And that motion— so helpless, so full of pain—

My eyes widened as I looked at her.

No—

No, no, no—

"What did he do?" My voice came out low, barely controlled, my fingers trembling as I tucked the blanket around her hips securely.

It felt pathetic. 

Like throwing a cloth over a wound that was already bleeding through.

As if fabric could hide what had been done.

As if anything could.

But it was all I could do now—cover her. Shield her. Do something.

Be something.

Her hands reached for mine. Grasped. Tight.

And I froze.

She was shaking.

Gripping my hand like she was scared I'd vanish.

She wasn't asking. She was begging. For safety. For me.

"E-Everything feels...dirty," she looked into my eyes, and the tears just kept falling.

Her voice was small—smaller than I'd ever heard it. A whisper inside a scream.

She didn't say it like a complaint.

She said it like a confession.

Like she thought I needed to know. Like I deserved to know just how ruined she felt.

And the shame in her expression—

It was unbearable.

Not because she thought she was dirty—

But because she believed I might agree.

My stomach turned.

My jaw locked so tight I felt a nerve spasm along my cheek.

I felt like vomiting and killing someone at the same time.

And then—

Without thinking, without meaning to—

I withdrew my palm from her hands.

Her eyes widened instantly—

Hurt flashing through them like lightning in a storm.

Like I'd confirmed her worst fear.

Her breath hitched. Her spine stiffened—shoulders straightening in slow horror.

Her mouth parted slightly, the beginning of a question she didn't dare ask.

Her grip loosened.

Like I'd just yanked the floor out from under her.

That look.

Hell, that look.

It was worse than anything I imagined.

Worse than blood.

Worse than bruises.

She thought I didn't want to touch her.

She thought I couldn't stand the feel of her now.

She thought the damage someone else left on her made her untouchable.

And that belief—

That it came from me—

Was the most devastating thing in the room.

She pulled her hands back into her lap, slowly, curling them into fists. Not angry. Not defensive. Just... bracing.

Like she was preparing for the final blow.

"Mini," I murmured, standing up quickly— too quickly.

Her breath faltered.

She started to breathe heavily, her hands twitching like they wanted to move, hide, do something—but she didn't know how.

Her fingers curled tighter into the blanket, like maybe she could fold herself into the fabric.

Like she could disappear if she stayed still enough.

It was self-preservation.

I had to get control of myself before I exploded.

Before I said or did something that scared her even more.

Because the rage inside me wasn't quiet anymore. 

It was screaming.

And she'd been through enough monsters.

She didn't need to see one more—

Not in me.

"Don't leave, please don't leave," she rambled, panicking.

The sound of her voice—too fast and pleading—dug under my ribs and curled there like barbed wire.

It wasn't just panic. It was desperation.

Like she'd already been abandoned, over and over, and couldn't survive it one more time.

"I am not leaving," I said, firmly and loud.

Steel in my tone. A command to the air, to my own shaking limbs, to the world trying to fall apart around us.

To her.

I wouldn't leave her. Not now. Not ever.

My eyes turned to the side, as I saw Hud and Susan looking at me, brows furrowed.

Their expressions made me want to break something.

They had seen her like this and not told me.

They had known and hidden her.

And now they were standing there, watching like this was some scene in a play they weren't sure whether to interrupt.

"I am scared, Ace," she spoke, her voice strained in a raw fear, as her finger shot out, fisting my coat.

And just like that—my entire focus tunneled. Her voice. Her hands. Her fear.

The sensation of her clinging to my coat—shaky, unsteady—made my throat tighten.

Then her eyes lifted just enough to scan the room.

She saw Hudson. Susan. Quinn.

And I saw it happen—

The exact second her face twisted.

Her eyes dropped again like she couldn't stand to be seen.

Her fingers clenched harder into the fabric between us.

Her mouth trembled. She pressed her lower lip between her teeth as if she could chew the shame out of her body.

Like their gazes burned holes into her skin.

Like every inch of her still felt exposed.

Violated.

And the worst part?

She thought she had something to be ashamed of.

I leaned down and slowly slid my arm around her waist and picked her up and sat on the side of the bed, placing her on my lap, her back turned towards them.

Her body didn't resist.

She just let herself be lifted like she was too tired to carry her own weight anymore.

Her arms wrapped around her almost reflexively, like she'd been holding her breath and finally remembered how to exhale.

Her body was too warm.

Feverish. Worn out.

Like the heat was clinging to her skin from shock, shame, and things she hadn't been able to scrub off yet.

Her head snuggled into my neck, as she pushed herself close to me.

The way she leaned into me—God.

Like she was trying to disappear into the space beneath my jaw. Like if she could melt inside me, she would.

My eyes darkened as I wrapped my arms around her, my heart pounding against my chest.

Pounding like it was trying to force time to go backward. Like I could undo everything if I just held her hard enough.

But I couldn't.

I couldn't erase it.

"Who is he, Mini?" I coaxed, wrapping the blanket around her body, securely.

I tucked it under her legs, over her shoulders, like I was trying to armor her with cotton.

Her head looked back and turned around, curling her knees to my waist, tightly.

She shifted until she was clinging to me like a lost child, her fingers curling into my shirt like if she let go, the world would break open again.

Then I felt it again—her breath hitching. Her shoulders pulling tighter.

Her back wasn't just pressed to me—it was trembling.

Not just from pain.

From being watched.

I looked up again. They were still there.

Still staring.

Even if they meant well—even if they were trying not to—

"Get. out. Every single one of you," I grit my teeth, stroking her hair as I placed my lips against her hair.

Every syllable was a blade.

I didn't care if they heard the murder in my tone.

They were lucky I wasn't coming for their throats too.

"Mini..." I began.

Her name fell from my mouth like a prayer I didn't deserve to say.

She shook her head weakly, trembling like a leaf trying to hold on in a storm.

"I... I don't know," she whispered. Her voice barely existed. It was breath and break and nothing else.

"He touched me... he hurt me... he touched—"

She paused.

Her face twisted. Disgust—raw, undiluted—clouded her expression.

That broke me.

Those words—those words—sent a surge of white-hot fury through my veins so violent, I thought my body might combust from the inside out.

"It's okay..bambi... let it out," I whispered, my voice soft despite the storm ripping through me like a goddamn tornado.

She needed gentleness right now.

Even if all I had inside me was wrath.

"I hated it... he bad touched me..." she murmured.

That word.

Bad touched.

It froze me.

It cut through the rage like a scalpel.

Not because it was childish— but because it wasn't.

It was something worse.

Like she was trying to name something too vile for her mouth to carry.

I pulled her closer, pressing my lips against her ear, making her twitch a bit.

The flinch.

She trembled in my grasp, her breaths uneven and shallow, like every inhale scraped against memory.

"He touched you very badly?"

She nodded slowly.

Her brows furrowed, like her mind was lagging behind her body.

Like she couldn't make sense of it.

But she remembered.

Her skin remembered.

Her muscles remembered.

And I saw it—all of it—in her eyes.

They were glossy, unfocused.

But behind that fog, there was something burning.

Anger.

Rage.

Raw and misplaced—because she hadn't found a direction to aim it in yet.

But I had.

"I hated it... I y-yelled and screamed... stop... begged but... h-h-he didn't. He..." she let out a faint cry.

Her fingers suddenly grasped my hand.

Urgent. 

Desperate.

And then she did something that shattered me into dust—

She placed it on the back of her head. Right at the center.

Guiding me. Carefully. Shakily.

Like she needed me to feel it.

Like she needed someone to know this wasn't in her head.

"He made me fall down on the floor and started to s-strangle me," she cried.

Her voice cracked like splintered wood. 

The sound— it made my vision blur.

I stroked her hair, pressing my lips thin. I could feel a little swelling.

The bump was right there—hot, tender. 

I caressed it gently with my fingertips—

And she whimpered, squinting her eyes shut.

I froze. Rage coiled in my gut like venom.

"He is a monster," she said.

Her voice didn't even shake.

It just broke.

"...I felt dirty when he was t-touching me."

No.

Not her.

Not her.

Never her.

I smoothed a hand over her face, gently brushing away damp strands of hair clinging to her skin. 

Her skin twitched like it was still expecting hands that hurt.

"Where did he touch you?"

I hated asking.

I despised hearing myself say it.

But I needed to know.

I had to know.

She looked up at me slowly, her expression crumpling like torn paper.

"Everywhere," she whispered.

That one word—small, broken, barely formed—punched through my chest like a hot nail.

I couldn't breathe.

Everywhere.

"I don't like it. It felt... disgusting. I still feel disgusting."

I wanted to tear my own skin off.

Placing her face on my shoulder, I wrapped my arm gently around hers, pulling her closer into me.

She hugged my forearm, small fingers digging into my sleeve, letting her tears fall.

Her whole body trembled as she cried— no sound, just shaking.

Her cheek pressed to my sleeve like it was the only safe place left in the world.

"He was rubbing himself on... m-me. I tried—" she let out a muffled choke cry, and her entire body buckled in my hold. 

"I tried to push him a-away but he was t-to—too strong."

That was it.

That was the final match to the gasoline in my brain.

I wanted to destroy whoever it was, wanted to find them and make them pay for every single bruise, every ounce of fear they'd put in her.

The image—

Him rubbing against her. Her.

My Mini, terrified, begging, pushing—

And he didn't stop.

"It's okay," I whispered, the lie sticking like ash on my tongue as I swallowed the venom in my throat.

My voice was soft, because she needed soft.

But my hands—

My hands were fists.

Bone-white knuckles.

"He slapped me... it made my head spin and..hurt so much," she said, her head slightly slipping down my shoulder.

Her voice was thinner now. Barely holding on.

My hand trembled where it cupped her back, trying to soothe her, trying not to shake with fury.

That motherfucking bastard—

If I ever find him—

No.

When.

Iris blinked up at me, "It hurts... everywhere," she confessed, her voice barely above a whisper.

I nodded slowly, like even the air might shatter if I moved too fast.

"I know, bambi. I know," I murmured.

"Let's go to doctor." My words were calm, low. 

I rubbed her hips carefully, trying to comfort—but the second my fingers grazed bone, she winced.

But then—

She exhaled. Relaxed slightly into it.

The wince killed me.

But the way she let herself ease into the touch—trusting me even now—made my throat tighten.

I should've been there.

I should've known.

She murmured one word, soft and raw:

"Sleep." Her brow furrowed in pain.

That one word sounded like surrender.

"Just a check-up and some creams for your lip," I murmured, my eyes drifting down.

The cut—

Deep. Red. Split cruelly across the edge of her lower lip.

Every word she spoke made it bleed again, just a little.

"They will try to admit me... there. I don't... want to be there, not like... this," she whispered, her voice shredded from inside.

Then her hand lifted weakly, fingers scratching at her throat.

Raw. Red.

She winced as her nails grazed skin, but didn't stop.

Like she was trying to scratch it off.

Her voice had cracked soo many times just trying to speak.

And I hadn't even noticed how much it hurt her until now.

I cursed myself.

My Mini's voice— Her voice, the one that used to say pray for me, the one that used to call me a jerk with half a grin—

It hurt her just to use it.

I reached up and gently, gently  took her hand away from her throat.

Cradled it in mine.

"Trust me. I will make sure you won't admit in hospital," I gave her my word, leaning down, pressing my lips against her cheek in a gentle kiss.

But she twitched.

Just slightly. 

But I caught it.

So, I pulled back instantly.

Didn't wait for her to flinch again.

Didn't let the moment turn to guilt in her chest.

I sighed—long and deep.

I will make sure he will suffer.

Not die.

Suffering is slower.

More deliberate.

More honest.

"Please, my sweet Mini. Trust me," I whispered against her skin, my mouth close enough that the heat of my breath touched her—but not my lips.

Her breath hitched—sharp, ragged.

Then slowly—

It began to settle.

Like my words had crawled into her chest and rewired her lungs.

Like they forced her panic to back down.

She didn't answer.

Not in words.

She just sagged against me.

Her breathing slowed, her body going limp in my arms as exhaustion overtook her.

Her limbs didn't fold naturally—they dropped. Like her body was on borrowed time, and sleep was her only escape route.

She yawned, the small, tired sound tearing at me in ways I hadn't expected.

It was such an innocent sound. Soft. Broken.

But hearing it now, it gutted me.

That he had taken her energy. That she was too worn down to cry anymore. Too tired to even tremble.

She cupped her jaw with a trembling hand and winced—so subtle it was easy to miss.

But I didn't.

I flinched with her, like the pain had jumped bodies.

I gently brushed her hair away from her face, tucking it behind her ear with trembling fingers.

Her skin twitched under my touch again.

Not recoil.

Just memory.

But she didn't pull away.

That tiny mercy nearly brought me to my knees.

"Can you tell me who he is?" I asked softly.

"Just this one thing, and you don't have to talk after. I swear."

I couldn't promise I'd stay calm.

But I could sound soft. I could pretend for now. For her.

"He's a monster." Her voice cracked halfway through—but there was no hesitation.

No name.

Just that word.

That truth.

Monster.

My nails dug crescents into my own skin.

I forced my knuckles to stay relaxed. My jaw to unlock.

There was blood in my mouth. I hadn't realized I was biting the inside of my cheek so fucking hard.

"Yeah," I murmured. I didn't even know who I was talking to anymore.

"I'll just talk to him, and that's it. Nothing more."

The lie slid off my tongue like silk.

But even she knew better.

Even I knew better.

Because I wasn't going to talk to him.

I was going to destroy him.

Peel back his skin and make him memorize the feeling of his own bones shattering.

Make him feel every breath she lost. 

Every cry she swallowed. 

Every touch that made her flinch.

I held her closer, feeling her small frame press against me, limply.

It was like holding shattered glass.

Grip too hard—it bleeds.

Grip too soft—it slips away.

"I don't know his name," she said quietly.

Her words were barely audible—buried in fabric, lost in exhaustion.

But they echoed in my skull like gunfire.

She didn't even sound scared anymore.

Just defeated.

"He was in Caleb's room," she murmured, her voice stiff as if saying it out loud hurt more than the memory itself.

My heart dropped.

Then rose— burning, clawing its way up my throat.

Every muscle in my body locked.

Caleb.

That little—

"Caleb was c-clinging to...him, so it was his roommate," she added, confirming what I already knew.

Roommate.

Not stranger. Not random. Not chance.

He was known. Familiar.

He belonged here.

And Caleb?

That boy— he was shielding him?

I kissed the crown of her head, lips ghosting over her scalp, whispering nothing, just trying to breathe.

She didn't twitch this time.

She just breathed—slow, wet, exhausted breaths.

"Everything will be alright, Mini," I whispered, the words coming out like a vow.

Not a lie.

Not hope.

Vengeance.

I placed her down gently on the bed, and even that—that—made her wince.

Every single movement caused her pain.

I turned toward the cupboard.

Just for clothes. Just to get her covered.

One step.

One fucking step.

And then—

A sound.

A soft, plaintive whine escaped her lips, barely formed, as if even begging had to fight its way out of her raw throat.

Her palm raised in the air, trembling.

She reached toward me like she didn't know how to say please don't go with words.

"I'm not leaving, Mini. Not again," I promised, my voice low but firm.

I returned quickly, grabbing a soft cotton top and pajamas.

Her pupils were sluggish, lips parted, like her mind was fading in and out.

She looked at me like I was something she wanted to believe in—but didn't know if she could.

I hesitated.

I stood there like a man about to step into fire.

Because removing that blanket... it felt like unwrapping a wound.

Peeling back bandages just to stare at what the fire left behind.

But I wanted to see.

God help me— I needed to see.

Every injury.

Every mark.

Every bruise.

Biting down hard, I slowly reached for the blanket, watching her face. Searching for fear. For protest.

But she didn't speak.

She didn't resist.

She just.....looked away. Shamefully.

And that—that—hit me harder than her bruises ever could.

Her shame. Her silence.

She couldn't meet my gaze.

Like she thought this would change how I looked at her.

As if any of this— any of this —was her fault.

As if she had done something wrong.

I hated that.

I despised it.

Slowly, I peeled the blanket back.

Inches at a time.

And what I saw—

My eyes flinched, chest tightening so fast I thought my ribs might crack.

Her thighs.

Bright red finger marks burned into the skin— smeared across her inner thighs, vivid and brutal, like someone had clawed at her while she struggled.

Scratches.

Some shallow. Some angry. Some still fresh.

She squeezed her legs together instinctively.

Like her body was still trying to protect what had already been taken.

Something inside me—something I had kept caged—split.

It wasn't just rage.

It was older. Primal. 

Monstrous.

But— I didn't touch her.

Even when my hands itched.

Even when every part of me begged to just kiss it.

Soothe her.

I didn't touch her thighs.

I didn't touch her skin.

Because even monsters like me have limits.

And this— this was it.

I turned around again and went towards the closet, rummaging through the mess of folded fabrics until I found a soft, pale knee-length skirt tucked between an old sweater and some wrinkled t-shirts.

Hell.

Even her clothes had to be filtered through his sins now.

Walking back quietly, I crouched down and gently grasped her feet in my hands. My touch was light. Reverent.

I began to massage the arch of her foot slowly, thumb gliding carefully along the skin.

"Do you trust Hudson and Su?" I asked, my voice hoarse.

Her ankles were so delicate. Too warm.

Her skin twitched beneath my thumbs.

My hands barely applied pressure.

Afraid to press too hard.

Afraid not to touch her at all.

She didn't answer right away.

Just stared at my hands like they were something distant, almost abstract. 

Blinked slowly, like every movement took effort. Like her brain and her body were still trying to sync back up.

Then—finally—

A nod.

Tiny. Weak.

But enough.

She nodded her head.

And that small nod— just that —gave me permission to go on breathing.

I hummed in response. Low. Soft.

Not even a sound, really.

More like a survival mechanism. Like if I didn't hum, my heart would stop.

Slowly, I grasped both her feet and lowered them to the floor, guiding them down like they were made of porcelain.

Her legs trembled like they didn't belong to her anymore.

Like she hadn't used them in years.

Like standing wasn't just painful—it was foreign.

I dropped to my knees, the skirt still in my hands, and opened the waistband with trembling fingers.

I slid her feet gently through the waist opening, my hands cradling her calves like glass.

Her toes curled. Her knees buckled.

But then—

She placed her hand on my shoulder.

Delicate.

But firm.

She pushed herself up, just barely off the bed, letting out a deep breath that rattled in her throat.

Her breath stuttered.

But she stood.

God.

She stood.

I looked up at her like I was looking at a goddamn miracle.

I smiled, just a little—more ache than joy.

"Such a strong girl. Aren't you, Mini?"

She didn't answer.

She didn't need to.

She just was.

Sliding the skirt gently up her thighs, I brought it to her waist, tying the drawstrings with a loose knot so it wouldn't cling to her bruises, but wouldn't fall either.

Then I reached for the hem of her top.

I paused.

Let my breath slow.

Then raised it just a little.

And my heart stopped.

Not from shock.

From recognition.

The skin on her stomach— red. Angry. Tender.

Burned.

Not a bruise. Not a hit.

Heat.

The sulfur smell—faint in the hallway but stronger here—burned at the back of my throat.

She had tried to scald him out of her skin.

To wash him off with boiling water.

To purge herself.

God.

I lifted the shirt higher, needing—hating—needing to see more.

Her chest bore faint scratches.

Redness.

Little trails of blood where someone—no, where he—had gripped her too hard.

Small scabs. Crescent nail-marks.

Every inch of her felt like a map of pain.

And I couldn't stand it.

My stomach twisted.

My pupils dilated so fast the room darkened.

My vision tunneled.

My breath hitched.

And all I could see was red.

I quickly lowered her top again, my hands shaking harder than I'd admit. 

I rested my palm gently on her hip, grounding myself, trying to keep from shaking apart completely.

I lowered my eyes to her feet.

Focus.

Get it together, you fucking coward.

Get a fucking grip.

My heart was trying to beat out of my ribs. Trying to escape the skin. It didn't want to be in my body anymore.

Neither did I.

Gulping hard, I raised my head slowly—and she was watching me.

Silent. Still.

Her eyes unreadable.

Like she was waiting for my verdict.

Like she thought what I saw might change how I saw her.

But it didn't.

It never  would.

"Bambi..." I began.

She hummed faintly. A small sound. Barely audible.

"Did he touch you here?" I asked quietly.

My hand hovered—hovered—just above her intimate area, not touching. Never touching. 

Just resting in the air, tentative. Careful. Gentle.

Her lower lip trembled and she shook her head, slow. But not confident.

"He... he rubbed—" She didn't finish.

She just pressed her lips together, as if sealing the memory away.

That half-confession was enough.

More than enough.

It wasn't penetration.

But it was violence.

Violation didn't always wear the same mask. 

"Did he... put anything inside you?"

The words made my teeth grind mid-sentence. I nearly gagged on them.

Even asking— I wanted to bite through my own tongue. Bleed.

Her eyes widened.

Confusion— terror —swirled in them like storm clouds gathering over a child's playground.

"What—what was he going to p-put inside me?" she asked, her voice cracking with panic, mouth parting in trembling horror.

Like the concept itself hadn't even formed in her mind until now.

That question.

Hell. Fucking Hell.

That question gutted me.

What was he going to put inside me?

The honesty of it.

The raw, horrified innocence.

It made my bones feel like they were splintering inside my skin.

She didn't even understand the full scale of what he tried- forced- to do.

I felt rage climb up the back of my throat like bile. 

I could taste iron. Could taste the scream I swallowed.

But I couldn't let it out.

Not now.

Not in front of her.

Shaking my head, I rose slowly to my full height. My legs felt like they were made of ash.

I picked up the blanket from the bed.

Not just for warmth. Not for modesty.

For protection.

Wrapping it around her, gently, carefully—top to bottom—tucking it beneath her arms, letting it fall around her knees.

Her hands grasped it instantly.

Clutching it like it was the only barrier between her and a world she no longer trusted.

A lump formed in my throat, thick and dry and sharp.

It wouldn't go away.

I looked at her.

Still beautiful.

Still mine.

But so hurt.

So fucking  hurt.

I felt a lump form in my throat, as I looked at her.

Was it my fault?

Yes.

Yes, it fucking was.

Because I wasn't there.

Because I let her go.

Because somewhere between control and delusion, I thought she'd be safer without me.

And I was wrong.

I was so goddamn wrong!