The weight in his tone made me look up. “What is it?”
“Something’s not right,” he murmured, scanning the space. “The man from the lobby—and the attendant who usually sits here—they’re gone.”
I looked around. The building felt abandoned, unnervingly still.
“I’ll take you back to the car. I’ll go into Mr. Miller’s apartment first, alone.”
Ference gripped my wrist, gentle yet firm, and led me through the lobby with quick, decisive movements. But before we could reach the door, men leapt from behind the reception desk. They moved with brutal precision.
I was shoved hard to the floor. My head smacked the tiles, vision wavering. Panic surged through me. Ference reacted instantly, pivoting with the sharpness of a trained fighter. His fist cracked against one attacker, sending the man staggering.
Two more lunged. Ference dodged with fluid speed, years of training carved into every movement. He landed a kick in one man’s stomach, driving the air from him. Another tried to grab hold, but Ference dropped low, seized his arm, and slammed him onto the ground in one swift motion.
But there were too many. One pulled a weapon. Ference’s hand went instinctively to his holster, but they were on him, crowding him in, cutting off his reach. A baton struck across his back. A heavy man lunged, and another blow cracked against his skull. Ference staggered, balance slipping. Before he could recover, pistols were raised, barrels leveled at both of us.
“If you make even a single move,” one hissed, pressing the gun forward, “I’ll shoot her in the head.”
Ference froze, breath ragged, fury burning in his eyes.
The elevator doors slid open with a metallic click. Thomas Mason stepped into the lobby.
“What a pleasure to see you again, my little one,” he said smoothly. “Bring her to the apartment.”
The men grabbed me and shoved me forward, guns fixed on us. Ference was forced in beside me, steel pressed to his skull.
Inside the apartment, Ference was thrown to the ground and beaten without mercy. I screamed, tried to reach him, but Mason shoved me down onto the couch. My shoulder slammed against the edge, pain shooting through me. His hand clamped down on my thigh, sliding higher with cold possession.
A raw, animal sound tore from Ference’s throat. Despite the blows, despite the blood streaking his face, he forced himself to his knees. “Let her go, you piece of shit!” he snarled.
Mason only laughed—low, arrogant, vile—pinning me with one hand while drawing his gun with the other. He aimed at Ference like he was nothing. Then, with a sudden twist, he leveled the barrel at me.
My heart lurched. His finger slid across the trigger. A small, mechanical click split the air. Not loud—louder than anything. Cold dread shot through me. I knew, in that second, I was going to die.
I froze, lungs locked tight.
Ference broke free, desperation blazing in his movements. I screamed, one single, ragged cry, as he hurled himself between Mason and me.
Everything happened at once—a crash, a gunshot, a dull thud. Ference staggered back, his hands clutching his chest where blood already poured through his fingers. His eyes locked on mine, full of pain, guilt, and something I knew would haunt me forever. His mouth opened as if to speak, but only a hoarse rattle slipped out.
“Miss… Daisy, I’m sorry,” he whispered, the words barely audible, before his legs buckled. He took the bullet meant for me and still apologized. Then sank to his knees. Mason sneered, cruel and contemptuous, and before Ference could rise one last time, a second shot thundered through the apartment. His body twitched once, then toppled sideways, still forever.
Blood spread across the floor, crawling like dark fingers toward everything it touched. My gaze stuck on him. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t breathe. The world tilted, merciless. Ference was dead—because of me.
Despair stabbed through my chest, sharp and unrelenting. The impulse to run to him, to catch him, to hold him—even just to give him warmth in his last seconds—consumed me. He had died for me, without asking for anything in return. A scream burned inside, desperate to tell him thank you, or I’m sorry, or simply that he wasn’t alone. Not like this. Not because of me.
Mason shoved me back roughly, his grip trapping me where I stood. My heart pounded against my ribs, wild and brutal, each beat a painful drum. A faint whimper escaped my throat as my lungs fought for air, useless, failing. His hand clamped on my arm and yanked me to my feet with brutal force. All I felt was that deep, black hole yawning in my chest, widening—bottomless.
“Move, you little slut,” Mason snarled, dragging me past Ference’s lifeless body. I stumbled helplessly, my limbs refusing to obey, while his iron grip gave me no escape. He tore open the bathroom door and shoved me inside. I hit the cold tile hard, stars bursting behind my eyes. The door slammed shut.
Gasping, I lay on the floor as uncontrollable tremors shook me from the inside out. My pale hands looked like they belonged to someone else. Ference’s face flashed before my eyes—his gaze, his last attempt to reach me, his broken voice. A whimper broke from my throat. Curling onto my side, I pulled my knees tight against my chest, as if I could protect myself from what had happened, from what was yet to come. But the pain stayed, relentless, and it wouldn’t stop.
Time bled away, meaningless. Minutes, hours—it didn’t matter. I remained curled on the tiles, motionless, a heap of misery. My limbs felt numb, foreign, as though they were no longer part of me. My throat burned with suppressed sobs, each breath shallow and ragged, but I didn’t move. I should have done something. Anything. Screamed, fought, run. Instead, I lay there, useless, pathetic, while Ference...
A violent shudder ripped through me. Because of me, he was out there. Because of me, he was dead. My fingers clawed at my dress as if I could dig the pain out of myself, but nothing worked. The thought cut deeper and deeper: I should have saved him. I should have stopped it. But I had failed.
Suddenly, sounds shattered the silence. The door flung open, and I stared straight into the barrel of a gun. Mason’s hand fisted in my hair and yanked me out of the bathroom. With a vicious jerk, he threw me onto the couch and pinned me down, his grip cruel and unyielding.
“Your boyfriend is here,” he hissed, calm and venomous, eyes glittering with delight.
