The doctor.
The same one who had run earlier.
He stood frozen in the entrance, lab coat pristine, stethoscope hanging loosely around his neck.
His face drained of color as his gaze flickered across the room—the broken bodies.
The blood.
Me.
Still bound. Half-exposed.
Stripped and bleeding.
His eyes widened.
Too late.
Vincenzo turned.
The movement was almost too smooth.
In one fluid motion, his hand slipped inside his jacket.
A compact pistol appeared.
Raised. Aimed.
The doctor didn’t even have time to react.
The gunshot cracked like thunder in the enclosed room.
The doctor jerked once—a neat, precise hole between his eyes.
His body stiffened mid-step. Then collapsed forward.
Dead before he hit the floor.
The silence that followed was heavier than the gunshot.
I flinched hard against the restraints, a choked sound catching in my throat.
My heart slammed against my ribs, every nerve in my body screaming at what I had just witnessed.
Another body.
Another life—taken in seconds.
Vincenzo didn’t even look at the man again.
He strode to the door in three long steps, slammed it shut, and twisted the lock with a sharp, decisive motion.
The heavy deadbolt slid into place with a deep, final clunk.
He crossed the room and knelt beside me, reaching down to his ankle.
In a single, smooth motion, he drew a dagger from its sheath.
