Behind her, a guard loomed—Harlan, name stitched across his chest, broad-shouldered, the authority of the uniform doing nothing to hide the weight of his stare.
His eyes crawled over her as she moved, lingering too long, and his lips muttered something low under his breath.
Every step she took, he matched just enough to remind her he was there, to make it clear she wasn’t leaving unnoticed. The badge and belt on his waist only sharpened the menace—he was meant to control her, but his presence carried something darker.
Something inside me snapped.
My vision went red. My body tensed, every instinct screaming to cross the distance and crush him where he stood. To show him exactly what happened to men who thought they could touch what was mine.
But I didn’t move.
This wasn’t about me anymore.
So I stayed where I was, fists clenched at my sides, swallowing violence like poison, and watched as Elena stepped fully into the open air—out of hell.
She walked toward me alone.
No escort. No hand guiding her forward. Just Elena, moving through the open space between the prison gates and me as though the air itself were hostile.
Each step was careful, deliberate, as if the ground might collapse if she trusted it too much.
Her shoulders were slightly hunched, not in submission, but in defense—like someone who had learned the hard way that the world struck without warning.
I didn’t move.
For the first time in my life, my body betrayed me.
The man who had stared down gun barrels and execution orders stood frozen, shame anchoring my boots to the gravel.
My legs trembled, muscles locking and unlocking uselessly, knees threatening to give out beneath the weight of what I was seeing.
I forced myself to lift my gaze.
When she stopped a few feet away, the distance felt immeasurable.
Her eyes met mine—and something inside me shattered.
There was no fire there. No fear. No hatred, even.
Just emptiness. A flat, hollow void that swallowed everything it touched.
I’d seen rage. I’d seen terror. I’d even seen brokenness.
This was worse.
This was absence.
Like whatever made her Elena had retreated somewhere unreachable, leaving behind only a shell that breathed because it had to.
The cold in that gaze cut deeper than any accusation could have. I would have welcomed screaming. Spitting. A slap across my face.
This silence was a sentence.
My eyes dropped despite myself, cataloging the damage with a horror I couldn’t stop.
Her shoulder was dark with dried blood, the fabric of her prison shirt stiff where it had soaked through. Fresh crimson bloomed beneath it, slow and insistent. She hadn’t bothered to hide it well—only to endure it.
Her left arm was tucked behind her back.
