Chapter One Hundred Twelve: The Second Bullet
The harness swayed above us, a dark rope ladder dropping from the belly of the helicopter like a lifeline thrown from heaven.
He carried me toward the ladder.
I should have felt safe. Rescued. Saved.
Instead, my blood ran cold.
The helicopter's searchlight swept across him—just a flash, a heartbeat of illumination—and I saw it.
A red mark.
On his back.
Just below his shoulder blade. Small. Precise. The kind of mark that didn't belong on skin, that wasn't a bruise or a scratch or a scar from an old wound.
The same mark Victor had worn before he fell.
"Taehyun."
My voice was a whisper, swallowed by the rotors. He didn't hear me. Kept walking, his arms tight around me, his eyes fixed on the ladder.
"Taehyun!" Louder this time, my fingers digging into his shoulders. "Put me down!"
He stopped. Looked down at me, confusion flickering across his face. "Angel, we need to—"
"There's a sniper."
The words came out flat, certain. The same certainty I'd felt in the restaurant, in the dark, when I'd known—known—that the gunfire was meant for us.
His eyes narrowed. His body tensed. But he didn't put me down.
"Where?"
"On your back. Red mark. Same as Victor." I swallowed hard, my throat dry. "They're aiming at you, Taehyun. They've been aiming at you this whole time."
He turned—slowly, carefully, scanning the tree line, the canopy, the shadows where a shooter could hide. The helicopter's searchlight swept the jungle, but the darkness was thick, impenetrable, full of eyes that watched and waited.
"I don't see—"
CRACK.
The gunshot was a thunderclap, splitting the night, echoing off the trees.
I didn't think.
I pushed him.
Hard.
His arms released me, and I fell—landing on the wet earth, my shoulder screaming, my vision white with pain. He stumbled sideways, caught off balance, his hand reaching for me.
"ANGEL!"
The bullet hit my shoulder.
Not the left—the right, the one that had already been wounded, the one that was still healing from the first shooting. The impact spun me around, slamming me face-first into the mud, the breath exploding from my lungs.
Pain.
White-hot, all-consuming, burning through my veins like fire.
"NO!"
Taehyun's scream was raw, animal, a sound I'd never heard him make. He was on his knees beside me, his hands pressing against my shoulder, his face pale, his eyes wild.
"Angel—Angel, look at me—stay with me—"
I tried to speak. Tried to tell him I was okay, that it was just my shoulder, that I'd survive.
But the words wouldn't come.
The world was fading, the edges blurring, the sounds of the jungle and the helicopter and his voice growing distant, muffled, like I was hearing them from underwater.
"Don't you dare close your eyes!" His hand was on my face, his palm warm against my cheek, his thumb brushing away tears I didn't know I was crying. "You hear me? Don't you dare!"
"Taehyun…" His name came out a whisper, barely audible. "Your back…"
"I don't care about my back!" His voice cracked. "I care about you! I care about—"
CRACK.
Another gunshot.
Closer this time. The helicopter returned fire—I heard the rapid burst of automatic weapons, heard shouting, heard the thud of bodies hitting the ground.
But Taehyun didn't move.
He stayed over me, his body a shield, his hands still pressing against my wound, his eyes still fixed on mine.
"You're going to be okay," he said, and his voice was steady now, certain, the voice of a man who had decided how this story would end. "You're going to be okay, and I'm going to kill everyone who hurt you, and then we're going to go home and—"
"Taehyun."
"—and I'm going to braid your hair, and you're going to complain about it, and—"
"Taehyun." I reached up, my hand finding his face, my fingers tracing the line of his jaw. "I love you."
His breath caught.
"I love you," I said again, stronger this time. "I should have said it at the restaurant. I should have said it a thousand times before. But I'm saying it now."
"Angel—"
"Shut up and let me finish." I smiled, even though it hurt, even though the world was spinning, even though I could feel myself slipping away. "I love you, Kim Taehyun. I loved you before I knew your name. I loved you when I couldn't remember my own. And I'll love you in whatever comes next—this life, the next life, every life after that."
His eyes were bright with tears.
"Don't talk like that," he whispered. "You're not dying. You're not—"
"I know." I pressed my palm to his cheek, feeling the warmth of his skin, the roughness of his stubble. "I'm just saying it. Finally. Because I should have said it sooner."
He leaned down, his forehead pressing to mine, his breath warm on my lips.
"I love you too," he said, and his voice broke on the words. "I've loved you since the moment you scowled at me over a six-dollar latte. I've loved you through every fight, every silence, every wall you built between us. I've loved you when you couldn't love me back."
His lips brushed mine—soft, brief, a promise.
"Now stay with me. Please. I can't do this without you."
I closed my eyes.
His arms wrapped around me, lifting me, carrying me toward the ladder. The helicopter was closer now—I could feel the wind from its rotors, hear the shouts of his men, the steady thrum of the engine.
"Stay awake," he commanded, his voice fierce. "Stay awake, Angel. Look at me."
I opened my eyes.
His face swam above me—pale, terrified, beautiful.
"There you are," he breathed. "There's my girl."
"Your girl," I echoed, the words slurring. "I like that."
"Then stay." His grip tightened. "Stay, and I'll be yours forever."
The ladder was above us now. Hands reached down—Junho, I thought, and Jinwoo—pulling us up, pulling us in, pulling us toward the light.
"Forever," I whispered.
● The Weight of Silence
[Taehyun's Pov]
The hospital corridor was a cathedral of fluorescent light and antiseptic dread. White walls. White floors. The distant beep of machines that marked time in increments of life and death.
I sat in the plastic chair beside your bed, my elbows on my knees, my head bowed. The clock on the wall read 3:47 AM. I'd stopped counting the hours. Stopped counting the minutes since they'd wheeled you into surgery, your face pale, your hand limp in mine, your blood still wet on my shirt.
They'd taken the bullet out.
The doctors said you were stable. Said you would wake up. Said the damage wasn't as bad as it looked, that you were young and strong and stubborn—their word, not mine, though I'd used it a thousand times.
Stubborn.
My stubborn, impossible, beautiful wife.
I reached for your hand. It was warm beneath my fingers, but limp. Unresponsive. Your chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm, the ventilator doing the work your lungs couldn't manage on their own.
"Come back to me," I whispered. My voice was rough, scraped raw by hours of silence and the weight of words I should have said sooner. "Please. I can't do this without you."
You didn't answer.
The machines beeped on, indifferent.
---
The next day—or what I thought was the next day; time had lost all meaning—I heard them outside your door.
Voices. Tense. Angry. The kind of angry that came from fear, from love, from the helplessness of watching someone you cared about suffer.
I didn't move.
Couldn't.
My eyes were fixed on your face, on the pale stillness of your features, on the bruise blooming across your temple where you'd hit the ground. My shoulder ached where I'd held you, where I'd carried you, where I'd pressed my hands against your wound and watched the blood seep through my fingers.
The door opened.
I heard her footsteps before I saw her—sharp, purposeful, the kind of footsteps that meant business.
Arshi.
She stood at the foot of your bed, her face pale, her eyes red-rimmed, her hands clenched at her sides. Behind her, Jihan hovered, his expression apologetic, his hands raised in a gesture of helplessness.
"I couldn't stop her," he said quietly.
Arshi didn't look at him. Her eyes were fixed on me.
And then she moved.
Her hand closed around my collar—the same collar she'd straightened at the restaurant, the same collar she'd touched with gentle, friendly fingers. She yanked me up, out of the chair, and her palm connected with my cheek.
The slap echoed in the quiet room.
"You!" Her voice cracked, raw with fury and grief. "You are a curse in my sister's life! Since you came into her life, she has been shot, kidnapped, nearly killed—"
"Sister?" Junho's voice came from the doorway, sharp with disbelief. "Arshi, what are you talking about?"
She didn't look at him. Her eyes were still on me, burning with an anger I deserved.
"You're her sister?" Minho stepped into the room, his expression unreadable. "Her real sister? By blood?"
"Yes." Arshi's voice was steady now, though her hands trembled. "She is my sister. I'm the girl she dreams about—the sister she sees in her dreams. The one she doesn't remember."
The room went very still.
"I was quiet." Arshi's voice dropped, softer now, but no less fierce. "I didn't tell her I was her sister. Her only family. Because this man—" She pointed at me, her finger trembling. "—told me not to. Because he said it could harm her. That pressuring her mind could make the amnesia worse."
She turned to face my brothers, her voice rising.
"I acted like a stranger. I sat at her table, drank tea with her, held her hand, and I never told her who I was. I watched her struggle to remember, and I said nothing. Because he asked me to."
"Hyung." Junho's voice was quiet, but there was steel beneath it. "What is happening? Tell us everything. This is the right time. Don't keep secrets."
Minho nodded, his arms crossed. "We never questioned why you loved her so much. But this—this is confusing."
I looked at them—my brothers. The men who had stood beside me through wars and betrayals and the slow, painful business of building an empire. They deserved the truth.
I looked at Arshi. At the tears streaming down her face, at the pain in her eyes, at the love she had been hiding for years.
"Jihan." My voice was hoarse. "Tell them."
Jihan stepped forward, his hand finding Arshi's shoulder, grounding her. "Three years ago," he began, his voice steady, "there was an accident. A car accident in Venice."
"The Venice Derailment," Minho murmured.
Jihan nodded. "The mission went wrong. Taehyun was betrayed. Someone tried to kill him."
I closed my eyes.
"She saved him." Jihan's voice was quiet, reverent. "She was there. In Venice.
"When she wakes up," Arshi continued, her voice steady despite the tears, "I will tell her everything. Every secret. Every lie. Every truth you've been hiding." She stepped closer, her hand gripping the edge of your bed. "And I will take her away from you, Kim Taehyun. Far away. Somewhere you can't follow."
My heart stopped.
"Please." The word tore from me, raw and desperate. I dropped to my knees—not because I was begging, though I was, but because my legs wouldn't hold me anymore. "Please, don't take her away. I beg you, Arshi."
My brothers stared.
They had never seen me kneel. Never heard me beg. Never watched me crumble like this, in front of strangers, in front of enemies, in front of the woman who held my entire world in her hands.
"You don't understand." My voice cracked. "She is my heart. My home. My reason for breathing. Without her, I am nothing. Less than nothing. I am the monster they whisper about in the dark, and she is the only light I've ever known."
Arshi's face was stone. "You should have thought of that before you lied to her."
"I know." I bowed my head, my forehead nearly touching the cold floor. "I know I don't deserve her. I know I've made mistakes—terrible mistakes—and I will spend the rest of my life trying to make up for them. But please—" I looked up, meeting her eyes. "Please don't take her away. Not yet. Let me tell her myself. Let me be the one to explain. And if she still wants to leave—if she still wants to go—I won't stop her."
Arshi was silent for a long moment.
"You love her," she said finally. It wasn't a question.
"More than my own life," I said. "More than anything in this world or any other."
She looked at you—at your pale face, at the steady rise and fall of your chest, at the bruise on your temple that matched the one on my heart.
"She loves you too." Her voice was softer now. "I've seen it. In the way she looks at you. In the way she says your name. In the way she chose to push you out of the way of a bullet instead of saving herself."
My eyes burned.
"She chose you," Arshi continued. "Even when she didn't know who you were. Even when she couldn't remember the life you'd shared. She chose you."
I pressed my forehead to the edge of your bed, my hand finding yours, my lips brushing your knuckles.
"I don't deserve her," I whispered.
"No," Arshi agreed.