August 8th, 2025
In the alleyway - 9:35 PM
The silence after bloodshed is never truly silence. It lingers with echoes - the drip of water hitting pavement, the faint hiss of wind crawling between cracked brick, the soft hum of a neon light half-broken above.
In the alley, everything stank of iron and sweat. Blood smeared across walls, pooled black in the cracks of asphalt, and clung sticky to the soles of Ian's boots.
The chaos was over. The five men lay scattered across the ground like broken dolls, their groans faint or absent. Some wouldn't wake up again.
And then there was Madison.
She lay limp against the wall, breath shallow, her hair plastered to her face with sweat and alcohol. Her long frame looked folded and vulnerable in a way that almost didn't fit her height.
Six feet of stubborn life reduced to trembling fragility. Ian crouched beside her, his body still trembling from adrenaline and pain, every nerve raw from the fight.
His ribs burned, his knuckles were split wide, and his stomach - Christ, his stomach - throbbed with the deep, cruel stab that still leaked warmth down his abdomen.
He blinked hard, forcing his blurry vision into focus, and reached out to touch her.
"Madison," he muttered, his voice gravel, rougher than he wanted. No response. He exhaled through his nose, a crooked grin twitching on his lips despite the fire ripping through his body. "You really know how to party, huh? Drinking yourself to death in a place like this. Elizabeth would've torched you if she found you in this state..." He paused, looking down at the unconscious woman. "And here I am, bleeding out because of you. Hell of a night."
He slid his arms under her, grunting as he lifted. The motion sent a spear of agony straight through his gut, but he locked his jaw, forcing his muscles to obey.
Madison was tall - almost his equal in height - but dead weight now. Six feet of unconscious muscly body pressed against him, her head lolling against his shoulder, her faint breath brushing his neck.
"You're heavy," Ian whispered with a weak laugh. "Gym rat, huh? Or maybe it's just me being a dumbass for getting stabbed."
Every step was a war. His boots scuffed against the pavement, leaving streaks of blood with each stride. The alley stretched endlessly, a tunnel that mocked him with its shadows.
His vision dimmed, like someone was twisting a dial on the world's brightness. The pulse of his wound matched the thudding in his ears - fast, frantic, weakening.
Halfway down the alley, his knees buckled.
"Fuck-" He groaned, staggering to keep Madison upright. Pain ripped through his abdomen, and hot blood spilled fresh down his side, soaking through his torn shirt.
He stumbled against the wall, one hand pressing Madison tighter against him, the other clawing at his wound.
The groan that tore out of his throat wasn't human. It was guttural, animal, a sound dragged from the core of someone who refused to stop even when his body begged for collapse.
But the wound didn't care. It bled and bled, merciless, eager to claim him. His vision flickered again - white sparks, then black shadows creeping in from the edges.
Ian's back hit the brick wall, and his legs gave out. He slid down with Madison still in his arms until both of them hit the ground in a heap. The impact sent another lance of pain through his stomach, and his breath exploded in a sharp, desperate gasp.
"Goddamn it," he hissed. His head tilted back, eyes squeezing shut. Sweat poured down his face, stinging the cuts on his brow.
For a long moment, he just sat there - his hand pressed tight to his wound, his other arm locked around Madison to keep her close. The silence of the alley pressed in again, broken only by his ragged breathing.
But Ian wasn't done. Not yet.
He forced himself to move. His fingers clawed at the shirt of one of the unconscious men sprawled near him. He yanked, tearing fabric with a snarl, the motion jerky and unsteady.
His hands trembled as he wadded the cloth, shoved it hard against his wound, and tied it tight. The pressure made him scream in his throat, the sound muffled as he bit down hard on the inside of his cheek.
Blood seeped through anyway.
Ian slumped sideways, his cheek pressing against Madison's temple. For a heartbeat, he closed his eyes and just breathed her in - the faint perfume buried under liquor and smoke, the warmth of her skin even in her unconsciousness.
"Look at us," he muttered hoarsely. "Two wrecks in the middle of nowhere."
He tried to laugh, but it came out more like a cough. His hand tightened on the makeshift bandage, but his strength was going. His grip weakened, his fingers loosening no matter how hard he commanded them to hold.
"Stay awake," he told himself, his voice low, harsh. He blinked rapidly, his head jerking to keep from tipping forward. "Don't you dare close your eyes, Ian. Not yet. Not here."
But the darkness pressed harder.
His breaths came shorter, each inhale a rasp, each exhale a surrender. His heart pounded unevenly, heavy then weak, as though his body couldn't decide whether to fight or give up.
His vision warped - the alley melting into shapes and colors, Madison's face blurring until she looked less like a woman and more like some painted goddess staring back at him from the haze.
For one fleeting second, Ian saw her not as the drunken, unconscious woman she was - but as something else. Strong. Fierce. Almost divine. A warrior who didn't know she'd just been saved. A Wonder Woman figure, carved out of smoke and blood.
And then she vanished into the blur.
His body sagged. His head dropped forward until his forehead brushed hers. His lips parted, whispering words only the night could hear.
"Damn, I think this is my time."
The sound of footsteps broke the silence. Sharp. Fast. Urgent. They echoed down the alley, bouncing off walls, rushing closer with each heartbeat. Ian's eyes cracked open, his lashes heavy as stone.
He couldn't see who it was. Couldn't tell if they were friend or enemy. His body didn't have the strength to rise, to fight again.
Then came the distant wail of sirens. Police. Growing louder.
Ian's chest rose one last time in a heavy, uneven breath. His eyes locked on Madison's face - still, pale, but alive. Beautiful in a way that made the pain worth it.
And then the world dimmed for good. The alley dissolved into blackness. The sirens became echoes. The footsteps grew faint.
The last thing Ian saw was Madison's face. The last thing he heard was the heartbeat of the city, pulsing like a lullaby as the darkness won.
August 9th, 2025
At the local hospital of Georgetown, South Carolina - 9:13 AM
The first thing Ian felt was not pain but sound.
A faint, rhythmic beep…beep…beep echoed in the fog of his consciousness, pulling him away from the darkness that had threatened to consume him. For a moment, he didn't open his eyes.
His body was heavy, his chest rose and fell slowly, and his stomach throbbed with a dull but persistent ache.
Then he heard voices - sharp, human, close.
"Why do I have to come here? I barely even know this man!" A woman's voice, nasal and full of irritation, cut through the haze.
Ian's eyelids fluttered, his vision swimming in blurs of white light and shadows. His ears strained, clinging to the sound.
"I didn't ask for you to come, Jessica." The reply was male, deep but tired, carrying a weight of frustration.
Ian froze. That voice. That tone. That name.
Ricky?
"Yeah, right. You didn't ask, but you never like it when I don't come with you. Because of your stupid paranoia!" the woman snapped back, her tone like claws against glass.
The man exhaled sharply, holding back something - anger or sorrow, Ian couldn't tell. "It's not paranoia if it's true, Jessica. And you know damn well it is."
There was silence for a heartbeat. Ian's eyes finally opened, blinking against the glare of fluorescent hospital lights. He squinted, letting the world sharpen into focus.
The room was sterile, white walls lined with machines and monitors. He turned his head slightly, every motion dragging pain through his torso.
He saw them: a man with messy black hair, mid-thirties, lines of stress etched around his eyes, and a woman - short, brunette, plump in the way of someone who lived without worry for appearances. She had crossed arms and eyes that rolled at everything.
Ian's heart gave a painful jolt. That man - he knew him. That was Ricky Nunez.
The same Ricky who had once fought bullies with him at the orphanage, who had laughed with him over stolen bread rolls, who had sworn - when they were both twelve - that no matter how the world screwed them over, they'd still be brothers.
"Ricky?" Ian's voice cracked, weak, a whisper more than a word.
Both heads snapped toward him.
Jessica let out a loud, annoyed sigh and muttered something under her breath. She turned on her heel and stormed out of the room with the kind of deliberate footsteps that demanded attention. The door clicked shut behind her.
Ricky's face changed instantly. His lips parted, eyes wide, disbelief turning into relief. "Ian. Holy shit. You're awake, man."
Ian tried to sit up but instantly regretted it. His abdomen screamed, and he instinctively reached for his stomach. His fingers touched thick bandages, tightly wrapped, warm from his skin. His chest rose shakily. "What… happened?"
Ricky moved closer, pulling a chair beside the bed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, studying Ian like a man afraid he'd vanish. "What happened? You got yourself stabbed, that's what. I found you in an alley bleeding out. You were this close to dying on me, bro."
His tone cracked, halfway between anger and worry.
Ian's brow furrowed, trying to piece things together. His mind replayed fragments - the alley, Madison's hazy face, the five men, the knife twisting into his stomach. He clenched his jaw. "But… what about her? The woman. Madison Hart. And those five guys?"
Ricky smirked faintly, shaking his head. "You mean those assholes laid out in the alley? Looked like a goddamn war zone when I walked in. And Madison Hart? Don't know. But those five were out cold. Broken. And you…" He gestured at Ian. "You were slumped there, bleeding everywhere like some action movie. I swear, if I didn't know better, I'd say you took on all of them yourself."
Ian exhaled slowly, relief mixing with the ache in his body. He let his head rest back against the pillow. "At least… she's safe."
Ricky's eyes softened. "That's the Ian I remember. Always throwing yourself in the fire for someone else."
The room went quiet, save for the steady beeping of the monitor and the faint hum of air conditioning.
Then Ian asked softly, "That argument earlier… what was that about?"
Ricky's expression shifted instantly, walls going up. He leaned back in the chair, his jaw tightening. "Nothing. Just… daily routine."
But Ian wasn't convinced. He raised an eyebrow, voice rasping but steady. "You said something. About her affair."
Ricky laughed bitterly. "Yeah. Found out I wasn't the only one… making my wife happy, you know? Guess I'm not enough." His lips curved into a melancholic smile, but it didn't reach his eyes.
Ian closed his eyes briefly, swallowing. "I'm sorry, Ricky."
Ricky waved a hand dismissively. "Don't be. I'm past the anger. I'm here for the kids now. They're what matter."
Ian opened his eyes again, staring at his old friend with respect. The years had changed him, added weight and scars, but beneath it, Ricky was still Ricky - the boy who had once stolen strawberries just to share them with him.
"Still standing strong for others," Ian said quietly.
Ricky gave him a crooked smile. "And you're still bleeding for them. Guess we never learned."
The tension eased, and for the first time since he woke, Ian chuckled faintly. Then Ricky reached under the chair and pulled out a plastic bag. "Speaking of learning, I did bring you something." He placed a Styrofoam container on Ian's lap. "Breakfast."
Ian blinked at him. "Man, you didn't have to…" His voice cracked with something dangerously close to tears. Kindness always caught him off guard.
Ian was not used to people's genuine kindness and generosity. He only knew few people with genuine kindness and generosity in his life.
Ricky grinned. "Strawberry pancakes. With white chocolate filling and cherries. Your favorite."
Ian froze, his throat tightening. He opened the container. The sight of the strawberry pancakes - pink golden, fluffy, drizzled with syrup, a handful of bright red cherries on top - hit him harder than he expected. Memories came flooding back.
"Ricky…" his voice trembled. "You remembered."
Ricky laughed, leaning back smugly. "Of course I did. You were a damn menace over strawberry pancakes. I remember you crying and bitching at Ms. Marlene to buy you more. You ate five stacks that day."
Ian laughed despite himself, wiping at the corner of his eye. "What can I say? Pancakes made me happy. And you have to do anything to reach happiness, right?"
Ricky's eyes softened. "Yeah. Good times."
The two men fell into silence, but it wasn't heavy. It was warm. A silence that spoke of old bonds, shared struggles, and unspoken gratitude. Ricky reached over and patted Ian's shoulder gently.
"Thank you," Ian said again, his voice barely above a whisper but full of weight.
Ricky squeezed his shoulder and smiled. "Always, brother."
The beeping of the monitor faded into the background as the two men sat there - one wounded, one weathered, both bound by the kind of brotherhood no years or betrayals could break.
Inside the penthouse of an expensive hotel in South Carolina - 10:34 AM
Madison groaned as a sharp spear of light cut through the heavy velvet curtains of the penthouse, slicing across her face. Her eyelids fluttered open reluctantly, lashes sticking together with the glue of exhaustion. For a moment, the ceiling above her spun, a blur of cream paint and golden molding. She muttered, voice hoarse and low, "Goddamn."
The world was too bright for her.
Her throat felt scraped raw, her tongue swollen with dehydration. The pounding in her head was merciless, rhythmic, like the thud of bass speakers still trapped inside her skull. She lifted a shaky hand to her forehead, pressing her palm against the hot skin as though she could hold the pain down.
Slowly, painfully, she pushed herself upright, the satin sheets slipping off her body with a whisper. The king-sized bed felt too large, too empty, mocking her with its untouched luxury.
Every muscle ached, every movement dragged, and when she finally swung her legs over the edge, her bare feet sank into the plush ivory carpet. She sat there hunched, eyes shut, massaging her temple with trembling fingers.
Her mind was a dark, broken mirror. She tried to piece together the reflections of last night, but they slipped like water through her hands.
Where was I? she thought, frustrated, dizzy. What did I do?
All she remembered was Georgetown. A small bar, the scent of sweat and whiskey clinging to the air. Neon lights flickering above like cheap halos. A drink pressed into her hand. Another. Then another. Laughter she didn't recognize as her own.
Then - darkness.
Her chest tightened. She rubbed harder at her temple, chasing the memories that refused to line up.
The heavy penthouse door clicked open. Slowly, cautiously. Madison's head jerked up, wincing from the sharp movement. Her bodyguard stepped inside, tall and broad in his pressed black suit. His face was impassive, but his eyes studied her with a flicker of concern he didn't voice.
In his hand was a glass of water and a small white pill.
He crossed the suite quietly, the hush of his polished shoes muffled by the thick carpet. Without a word, he set the glass and pill gently on the side table beside her.
Madison swallowed hard, her throat dry. "Ugh…" Her voice rasped, a mixture of anger and pain. "What happened last night?"
The bodyguard straightened, hands clasped behind his back in disciplined composure.
"Ms. Hart," he said carefully, his voice low and steady, "we found you lying unconscious in an alleyway."
Her blood ran cold.
Her lips parted, but sound caught in her throat. The word alleyway shattered her fragile denial. Suddenly, violently, her memory came back - not in order, not whole, but in shards that cut as they surfaced.
The party. The bar. The music pounding against her ribs.
Men and women dancing with her, bodies pressed against hers.
Her laughing, drunk, numb.
Lines of cocaine cut sharp on a table.
The sting of powder up her nose.
Hands clapping, urging, demanding more.
Bottles tilting to her lips.
Five men circling her like vultures, voices smooth, promises sickly sweet.
Her stomach twisted.
"Oh my god." The words tore out of her, a hoarse whisper. She clutched her mouth as bile rose in her throat. Horror sank deep, wrapping cold chains around her chest. If anyone had seen her like that - if anyone had recorded it, shared it - her name, her career, her carefully curated image would be destroyed.
Her charity visits. Her smile in interviews. Her talents. Her accolades. Her dream as Queen of Hollywood star - ashes.
Her reputation would rot.
Her eyes burned with tears that she refused to let fall.
And then, another memory forced itself through. Brighter, gentler. The orphanage. The smell of crayons and chalk. The laughter of children, sticky hands tugging at her dress. Their smiles, wide and innocent. And Ian -
His face. His eyes. His hand extended toward her, not with powder, not with liquor, but with something painfully simple: truth.
She saw him there, like a scar in her mind, reminding her of the gulf between who she pretended to be and who she really was.
Her horror twisted, hardened. It calcified into rage.
"That goddamn bastard." Her voice cracked as she hissed the words through clenched teeth. Her hands curled into fists on her lap. "He was the one who drove me to do these… fucking things."
Her chest heaved, fury sparking hotter than her shame.
It had to be him. It had always been him. Ian, with his quiet judgment, with his face that made her feel like angry all the time. He had driven her here, pushed her to this spiral. He made me weak. He made me do this.
Her migraine flared, a knife twisting behind her eyes. She hissed in pain, clutching her forehead. "Fuck…"
The bodyguard, silent as stone, lifted the pill and water toward her. She snatched them with trembling fingers, tossing the ibuprofen into her mouth and gulping the water like she was drowning.
The burn of liquid sliding down her dry throat was unbearable and relieving all at once.
She sat there hunched, eyes closed, waiting for the medicine to numb the pain, for her breath to steady.
But the silence didn't last.
The door creaked again.
Madison's eyes snapped open, her pulse skipping as footsteps approached. When she looked up, Elizabeth stood in the doorway.
No makeup. No performance. Just her bare face, pale and sharp, eyes cold as stone. Her tailored jacket hung perfectly across her shoulders, her presence cutting into the air like a blade.
"Honey," Elizabeth said, her voice quiet, heavy, and unyielding. "We need to talk."
The words dropped like lead.
Madison's chest tightened. Her head still throbbed. Her throat closed around words she couldn't form.
Elizabeth's expression didn't waver. She didn't blink. She only stood there, her seriousness colder than the penthouse's air conditioning, her voice carrying a weight Madison couldn't ignore.
The room was silent, save for the faint hum of the city outside, a thousand stories below.
And in that silence, Madison knew - whatever Elizabeth had to say, it wouldn't save her.
It would break her.