Max was met with silence. He knocked again. “Lena, I didn’t mean it. I was just… stressed. It wasn’t fair for me to yell at you. Please, talk to me.”He caught a sniffle from within, followed by a gentle, uncertain click. The door opened slightly. Lena's tear-stained and swollen face emerged. “I… I’m really sorry, Max,” she murmured, her voice quiet. Max carefully opened the door and walked in. He perched on the side of her bed. “No, Lena. I’m the person who should be sorry. I shouldn’t have raised my voice. You didn't do anything wrong. I am just… having a rough week and I took it out on you. That was wrong, I’m sorry.” She sniffled once more, using the back of her hand to wipe her nose. “It’s all right. I… I was just trying to surprise you and cheer you up with my soup.” “I know,” Max said softly. “And I appreciate it. Really. You just… you scared me.”She looked down at her hands, twisting the hem of her t-shirt. “He… he hated my stew.”Max frowned. “Who hated your stew, Lena?”

The black Mercedes screeched to a halt outside the stately grand entrance to the city museum, then Max didn’t sit still for Marco to open the door, threw it open, and fell screaming out. Only after he was able to see Marco’s worrying “Mr Luckey! ” . That a running Max ran toward the huge bright building. He felt a heartbeat fill his ribs, a frantic beat hurting against his ribs. ‘Please, let her still be here. Please, let her understand’As he unlocked the hallowed gates he ran his eyes crazy through the huge, echoing lobby. The museum was open still, some people around in there, but probably the art show was wrapping up. He saw one security guard and ran over.“Excuse me! The art exhibition! Is it still open? Has... has Trisha been here? ” Max said exhilarated.The guard, a serious-faced black man with a neatly cut beard and who glared at him, didn't laugh. "Sir, the exhibition was closed fifteen minutes ago. And I'm afraid I don't know any 'Trisha'. "Max’s shoulders shrugged. 15 mi

The cool nights bit at Trisha’s exposed arms, but she didn’t notice. She stood outside the huge entrance to the museum, her phone tight in her ear, with the dial tone turning in an embarrassed rhythm. “Come on, Max, pick up, ” she muttered. She walked slow around the museum. He’d promised. He’d told her he would be home before the night was out. But the museum’s closing, and he was gone. She called his number again. Voicemail. Again.A loud, guttural scream, followed by a crash, lashed through the silence of the museum. It came from the inside. Trisha’s heart snapped into her throat. Max. She didn’t blink. She slammed open the heavy door and ran back into the gallery’s echoed lobby.The scene that set her up stopped the blood. Max. Laying on the polished marble floor in suspension, a slimy stain covering the side of his head. Brock Sterling stood over him, face scrunched in a convulsion of catatonic triumph. And a few feet away, Evelyn, holding up her hand to her mouth, eyes wide with

The lead security guard, a big, burly man with a scowl scarred on his face, took another step forward and tightened the grip of his baton. "You heard the lady punk, you're coming with us. Don't make this any worse than it needs to be. "Max never flinched, wiping the blood from his lips with the back of his hand, his eyes - heavy -- filled with exhaustion and pain - showing a dangerous glow. “I’m not going anywhere! ”The guard laughed. "You think you're tough, huh? We'll see about that. " He lunged, his baton aimed for Max's ribs.Max moved. Not like the fluid, graceful grace he fessed up to in a fight with Brock. That was instinct, fuelled by adrenaline and not one bit of self-restraint in his reluctance to be beaten again. He evaded the swing at the guard; the baton waving in his ears, Max grabbed his arm from the guard and turned his way around, using the movement of the man to his advantage. The guard grunted, unbalanced. Max kicked hard at the back of the guard’s knee at the ank

Max's eyes blinked awake, a dull pain pulsing at his temples. He blinked, attempting to concentrate. The ceiling was strange, a gentle, creamy white, adorned with detailed crown molding he had never seen before. The room was large and infused with soft and warm light seeping through thick curtains. It had a subtle scent of lavender and aged wealth. A contemporary, but unmistakably opulent space. He attempted to shift, but a heavy ache in his head recalled the bandage secured around it. He was partly unclothed, with a gentle, strange sheet covering his lower body. At least he was still wearing his underwear.A gentle click of the door. Trisha. She entered with a tray held in her hands and a troubled expression on her face. Her eyes, nonetheless, brightened the instant she noticed his eyes being open. “Max! You’re awake!” she exclaimed, letting the tray fall with a crash onto a nearby table. She hurried to him, her arms encircling him in a soothing, yet strong embrace. “Oh, thank God!