I was lifted off my feet and hurled into the window—the glass shattering around me as my spine collided with the frame with a deafening thud.
Pain erupted across my back and head as I tumbled onto the pavement outside.
Stars danced in my vision, and my lungs screamed for air that wouldn’t come.
I crumpled on impact, clutching my side, each breath a stabbing, blinding agony.
Before I could fully gather myself, I saw him jumping after me, aiming to land on top of me.
My body reacted instinctively—I rolled to the side, narrowly avoiding the impact, and sprang to my feet.
My heart pounded.
Adrenaline surged.
I could no longer see the man as himself.
All I saw was red.
Rage. Pure, unfiltered aggression that burned hotter than fear or pain.
I charged like a woman possessed, every step fueled by years of trauma and everything I’d been forced to endure.
I didn’t think. I struck. Hard.
First to the groin—he buckled instantly, a guttural roar ripping from his chest.
I didn’t hesitate.
My fists hunted the soft, vulnerable spots a trained fighter depended on: the solar plexus, the throat, the knees.
Each strike was precise, deliberate, fueled by instinct and raw desperation.
His body flailed violently under the onslaught, each blow cracking against bone and muscle.
Pain exploded across him like wildfire.
Blood spurted from his mouth, his throat convulsing with ragged, choking gasps.
His knees wobbled, shoulders heaving as the shock of it stole his balance.
Then my hands found his face.
Again and again, I struck, releasing everything I had bottled inside for five long years—the fear, the hunger, the anger, the trauma.
Each punch was memory made flesh.
Each strike carried the echoes of Amy, the mission, the captivity, the endless nights of running and surviving.
Even after he fell to the floor, I didn’t stop.
My arms moved on their own, powered by instinct and rage, striking until my body trembled and my knuckles burned.
Suddenly, a strong grip yanked me away.
Chapter 4
ELENA
