He didn’t understand the signs.
His face remained carved from stone.
The silence crushed me.
I dropped to my knees.
The concrete bit into my skin as my palms pressed together instinctively, prayer-like, forehead bowing until my curlsbrushed the ground. Tears poured freely now, streaking through dust and blood, splattering the concrete beneath me.
I had never begged before.
Not like this.
He watched me for a long moment.
The moonlight carved him into something mythic—part god, part executioner.
Then he stepped away.
Hope flared painfully in my chest.
I scrambled to my feet, nearly tripping over myself as I ran to the nearest metal table. My hands fumbled desperately through a stack of paper napkins. I grabbed a fistful and hurried back to him, heart hammering, fingers shaking so badly I almost dropped them.
I reached up to wipe the blood from his cheek.
He caught my wrist mid-air.
His grip was iron.
For one heartbeat, I was sure he meant to break it.
Then—impossibly—his fingers loosened.
Not fully.
But enough.
And his face... softened.
Just a fraction.
Just enough to make something ache behind my ribs.
“I thought you coughed blood the first time to play the victim,” he said quietly. “Some clever performance. A manipulation.”
His gaze flicked to the red staining his shirt.
“But...” His jaw tightened. “It seems you’re actually sick.”
I shook my head violently.
No.
No, no, no.
I’m not sick.
I’m mute.
