Ramon stared at the glass in his hand for a long moment, letting the burn settle in his chest. He did not take another sip because he could not. His thoughts were too loud, too tight, and too tangled to allow anything else to occupy his mind. The chatter of the bar faded in and out like a broken radio signal, fragments of laughter and conversation slipping past him without ever fully connecting. For a fleeting second, he felt utterly alone, even though the room was crowded. It was as if every other person had faded into the background, leaving only his racing thoughts and the echo of his own guilt.Davis was laughing at something one of the girls said, his voice carefree, a bright contrast to the heaviness settling in Ramon’s chest. But when Davis turned and saw the expression on Ramon’s face, the smile fell instantly, replaced by a flash of concern.“Bro,” Davis said, nudging his arm lightly, “you’re thinking too hard again.”“I’m thinking the right amount,” Ramon replied, forcing ea

Ramon got into the car heading back to the house to save Melinda or rather see who was breaking in or if she was breaking out, and trying to leave like she did before. He threw himself into the driver’s seat, hands shaking so badly he nearly dropped the keys. His chest felt tight—too tight—as if every breath had to fight its way out. He tried to shove the key into the ignition, but it kept slipping between his trembling fingers. Sweat clung to his palms, making everything worse. “Come on,” he muttered under his breath, voice uneven, breath shaky. Davis followed him and slipped into the passenger seat, still slightly out of breath. “You were trying to leave without me, weren’t you?” he said, watching Ramon closely. Ramon didn’t respond. He didn’t even look at him. His hands were shaking too hard, his jaw locked tight as he fought to get the key into the ignition. It kept slipping, his fingers trembling uncontrollably. After what felt like forever, he finally managed to slide the

Damian knocked on the door and waited. When there was no response, he knocked again, slower this time, his knuckles rapping against the wood with deliberate restraint, as if giving her a second chance to answer before he allowed himself to worry. He held his breath without realizing it, listening for any sound from inside. “Sonia,” he called out. His voice was even, controlled, but beneath it ran a thread of tension he couldn’t quite mask, no matter how much he tried. There was still nothing. The silence stretched on, thick and uncomfortable. Damian frowned slightly, a faint crease forming between his brows. She had come upstairs earlier and shut herself in—at least, that was what he had assumed. He stayed where he was for a few more seconds, listening intently, hoping for something small and ordinary: the shuffle of feet, the soft creak of the bed, the sound of a drawer opening. Anything that would confirm she was exactly where she was supposed to be. Nothing came. His unease

“Let’s go now,” Melinda whispered, her voice low and unsteady despite how tightly she was holding herself together. “I’m sure he won’t find me.” She barely recognized her own voice. It sounded distant to her ears, like it belonged to someone else—someone braver, someone already halfway gone. Her hands were clasped together in her lap, fingers locked so tightly they ached. She didn’t loosen them. If she did, she feared she would start shaking again. The stranger in the driver’s seat hesitated. She could feel it in the way the car remained still, the engine idling too quietly for the chaos unfolding behind them. He glanced at her through the rearview mirror, his eyes searching her face as though he were weighing whether to ask another question, whether to stop her, whether to turn around. But he said nothing. He didn’t move either. Melinda didn’t look at him. Her gaze was fixed ahead, past the windshield, toward the house that had once trapped her inside its walls. From where they w

--- While the house churned with noise—raised voices, hurried footsteps, doors opening and slamming—Rico lay still on his bed, staring across the room. The sounds barely registered. They felt distant, fragmented, as if they belonged to another world, one he had already stepped out of, a world he no longer wished to inhabit. His eyes remained fixed on the small cooler at the foot of the bed. It sat there quietly, unassuming in shape and size, yet it pressed on him like a weight he couldn’t shake. Every time his gaze fell on it, a tightness coiled in his chest, insistent and unyielding. It was more than curiosity—it was a premonition, a bodily warning that something significant lingered within. His blood. The very blood he had willingly given to save Eliron’s life now rested inside that cooler, glowing faintly, innocently almost. Yet the sight twisted something deep inside him—a swirl of unease, fear, and an anger that hadn’t yet burned itself out. It was the blood Zaya had brough