The CaregiverI don’t leave his side.They tell me I should—soft voices, careful words—but I shake my head every time. Someone brings me a chair, then a blanket. I don’t notice until hours later when my legs finally stop trembling and the room smells faintly of antiseptic and ozone from overheated machines.Leon lies still on the bed, monitors humming around him like a quiet chorus. His chest rises and falls in shallow, measured breaths. Each one feels borrowed.The Silent King of Shadowline. Reduced to silence for real.I sit close enough to hear him breathe, close enough to see the faint line between his brows even in sleep. He looks younger like this. Less carved from steel. More like a man who has been carrying too much for too long.I roll the bandage between my fingers, hands steadier than I expect them to be. The medic showed me how—gentle pressure, clean wrap, no hesitation. I do exactly as instructed, even though my chest aches with every movement.“This might sting,” I mur

Leon’s WarningEmily’s POVLeon didn’t raise his voice.That was what frightened me most.The penthouse was quiet in the way only expensive places ever were—thick walls, muted lights, the city reduced to a distant glow beyond glass. I stood by the window, pretending to watch traffic bleed through the streets below, while my pulse hammered so loud I was sure he could hear it.He could always hear things others missed.“Emily.”Just my name. Soft. Controlled.I turned slowly. Leon stood near the doorway of his office, jacket discarded, sleeves rolled to his forearms. He looked calm, but I knew the signs now—the stillness, the way his eyes tracked me without blinking, the tension coiled tight beneath his skin like a weapon waiting to be drawn.“You’ve been quiet,” he said.“I’m tired,” I replied too quickly.His gaze sharpened, not angry—assessing. “You’re not tired. You’re hiding.”My throat closed. I forced myself to breathe, to keep my face smooth. “I don’t know what you want me to sa

The Meeting Emily POVThe abandoned train station smells like rust, oil, and ghosts.Every step I take echoes too loudly, my boots striking cracked concrete where crowds once rushed toward destinations that mattered. Now the place is hollowed out—broken benches, dead screens, graffiti bleeding down the walls like old wounds. The overhead lights flicker weakly, casting long shadows that stretch and twist, as if the darkness itself is watching me arrive.I shouldn’t be here.Leon’s voice still lives in the back of my head—low, controlled, dangerous even when he’s calm. Don’t go alone.But my father’s message had been precise. One hour after midnight. Platform Four. Alone.So here I am.Platform Four yawns open ahead of me, the tracks swallowed by darkness. Wind rushes through the open ends of the station, whistling like a warning. My hand curls instinctively around my phone, though I know it won’t help me here. Shadowline can’t track this place. Leon taught me that himself—how dead

The UltimatumEmily’s POVI don’t remember deciding to move.One second, Leon and my father are locked in a stare that feels older than both of them—heavy with history, resentment, blood. Next, my body is already reacting, stepping forward, placing itself squarely in the line between two men who could destroy each other.Again.The platform feels smaller now, like the walls have leaned in to watch. The flickering lights overhead buzz faintly, casting long, fractured shadows across the cracked concrete. Somewhere down the tunnel, water drips in a slow, maddening rhythm.Leon’s gaze snaps to me.“Emily,” he says, low and sharp. “Move.”I shake my head before my fear can catch up to me. My hands are trembling, but my feet stay planted. If I move now, if I choose one side, I don’t know if I’ll ever be able to undo it.“No,” I say. “Not like this.”My father exhales behind me, the sound edged with bitter relief. “You see?” he says quietly. “She still chooses compassion. That’s the differ

The Hospital RoomThe hospital room smells like antiseptic and quiet despair.Machines hum softly around Leon’s bed, a steady rhythm that has become the metronome of my existence. Heart monitor. IV drip. Oxygen. Proof that he’s still here. Proof that I didn’t lose him in that cold, broken station.I sit beside him, unmoving.Hours blur together—night bleeding into morning, morning folding back into night. Nurses come and go. Doctors speak in careful tones, their words clipped and professional, but I hear the truth beneath them.He’s stable—for now.The bullet missed vital organs—barely.He lost a lot of blood.Every sentence ends with the same unspoken warning: Don’t relax.I refuse to leave his side.I don’t eat. I don’t sleep. I didn't check my phone again after that message. It stays face down in my bag like a live wire, humming with threat. Whatever waits there can wait. Leon is breathing. That is all that matters.His hand lies limp on the white sheets, fingers long and scarred—