I believe he would.
“Benji, don’t—” I whisper, panic rising like a tidal wave in my chest.
“Oh?” Paul says, that sick smile curling across his face. “We’ll see about that.”
And then?—
He pulls the trigger.
The sound explodes through the room.
A deafening crack that tears a scream out of me before I even realize it’s happening.
“NO—!”
But Benji—God—Benji moves.
So fast I barely see it.
One second he’s in front of me—the next he’s on him.
His hand just slams into Paul’s wrist, shoving the gun to the side just as it fires.
Blood is flowing from his nose, but he doesn’t seem to feel it.
They struggle for the gun, and it goes off again.
This time the bullet hits the glass wall with a violent crack—but it doesn’t shatter.
Thank God.
Oh God, thank God.
And then it’s chaos.
Pure chaos.
Benji’s fist connects with Paul’s face with a sickening thud.
Once.
Twice.
Again.
Each hit sharp and brutal and controlled in a way that tells me this isn’t just anger.
This is training.
This is instinct.
This is survival.
I stumble back, my legs barely holding me as the two of them crash into the furniture, knocking a chair sideways, sending something glass shattering across the floor.
“Stop—stop it!” I cry, my hands shaking, my heart pounding so hard I think I might black out.
But they don’t hear me.
