Sunday mornings at the hospital were usually busy, but that day felt strangely heavy for Larah. After nearly eight exhausting hours of nonstop patients, she was ready to collapse into the nurse's rest room for her break. Her hands ached from endless work, her back stiff, yet all she wanted was a moment of quiet.
But before she could relax, she noticed something unusual.
A man sat in the waiting area, dressed in a sharp formal suit. He wasn't like the usual patients. He wasn't pale, sick, or tired—he was smiling. And worse, his dark eyes never left her.
Larah stiffened, her steps faltering. Why is he staring at me like that? she thought uneasily. She turned her gaze away, whispering under her breath, "What a freak…"
Determined to ignore him, she pushed through the door into the rest room. Finally, a moment of peace. Or so she thought.
As soon as she sat down on the chair, a faint echo of footsteps reached her ears. At first, she assumed it was one of her colleagues. But then a voice—deep and unfamiliar—cut through the silence.
"Miss, you need to come with us."
Larah turned, startled, and froze. A man stood behind her, his gun pressed against her waist.
Her breath caught. "Wh-what do you want? Please—" Her voice cracked, trembling with fear.
Tears welled in her eyes as panic set in. But before she could scream, the man swung his gun, striking the back of her head. Darkness swallowed her.
---
When Larah woke, her head pounded. She blinked rapidly, disoriented, until she realized she was no longer in the hospital. Her wrists were tied tightly behind her, her ankles bound to the chair. The air was damp, thick with mildew, and the faint sound of dripping water echoed through the room.
Her heart raced. Where am I? What's happening to me?
She struggled against the ropes, but they only cut deeper into her skin. The room around her came into focus—an old basement, lit by a single flickering bulb. Shadows stretched across cracked walls.
"Help! Somebody help me!" she screamed, her voice bouncing off the concrete.
The sound of footsteps answered her. A group of men entered, their laughter sharp and cruel. Each one carried a weapon—knives, bats, guns gleaming under the weak light. At their front was a man with a jagged scar across his face and tattoos snaking up his arms. His thick beard twitched as he smirked.
"Well, well, well. Look what we've got here," he sneered, approaching her slowly.
"P-please," Larah stammered, tears streaming down her face. "I didn't do anything. You must have the wrong person."
The gang erupted in laughter. One man mocked her accent, mimicking her pleading tone. Another swung his bat lightly, grinning.
The tattooed leader crouched in front of her, gripping her chin roughly and forcing her to meet his eyes. His breath reeked of smoke and liquor.
"Don't play stupid, girl," he hissed. "You killed one of our men. And you tried to save the bastard we've been hunting."
Larah's body shook violently. "N-no, that's not true! I didn't kill anyone. I'm a nurse—I was only helping him! He was hurt, I—"
Her words dissolved into sobs.
The gang roared with laughter again, their cruelty echoing in the small room. Suddenly, the man with the bat slammed it against her thigh. Pain exploded through her leg, and Larah screamed, her voice raw and desperate. Blood trickled down as she writhed helplessly in her chair.
The tattooed man smirked, pulling out a pistol and aiming it at her head.
"Enough games. Let's end this."
Larah's breath hitched, her eyes wide with terror. Is this it? Am I going to die here?
But before the shot could fire, another sound cut through the basement—the deafening crack of a bullet.
The gun flew from the tattooed man's hand, blood spraying as the weapon clattered to the floor. Chaos erupted.
"They're here!" one of the gang shouted. "Kill them all—except Ethan!"
The tattooed man cursed, clutching his bleeding hand. "We'll deal with you later, witch," he spat at Larah before disappearing into the shadows with his men.
The basement exploded into violence. Gunfire echoed, bullets sparking against the walls. Ethan's men stormed in, "the dogs" as he called them—trained, merciless, efficient. Several of the gang fell quickly, their bodies dropping to the ground.
Larah sat frozen, tears blurring her vision, too weak to even scream.
And then she saw him.
Through the smoke and chaos, a figure emerged. A tall man, his dark suit slightly torn, eyes burning with fury. Ethan.
"It's you…" Larah whispered, her voice trembling. "The man I helped that night."
Ethan strode forward, kneeling before her. His expression was tight with guilt, his eyes softer now. He pulled out a knife and cut through the ropes binding her wrists.
"I'm sorry," he said, his voice low and rough. "I'm late. But I'll get you out of here."
Larah collapsed against him, her body trembling from pain and terror. She had never felt so small, so helpless, yet some part of her clung to the strength in his arms.
Behind them, the fight raged on. But Ethan didn't let go. He lifted her effortlessly, carrying her through the chaos as bullets whizzed past.
For the first time, Larah realized—her life was no longer her own. It had been pulled into a world of blood, guns, and shadows. And the man who held her now… was at the very center of it.