2025-08-03 19:43:52The scent of antiseptic punched Ethan ’s nose the moment he stepped into the emergency ward.
He wasn’t breathing—he couldn’t. “Code Blue in Room 7!” The shout echoed down the corridor like a bullet through his skull. Room 7. His mother’s room. His feet moved on instinct, tearing through nurses, IV poles, and screaming orderlies. His heartbeat thudded like war drums in his ears. Please no… Not her. Not again. Not now. When he slammed through the door, what he saw nearly brought him to his knees. His mother—pale, fragile, the woman who used to sing lullabies through her broken voice—was convulsing. Her IV bag had already been yanked out. Nurses scrambled to resuscitate her. “Ma!” Ethan choked. “What happened to her?!” The head nurse didn’t even look at him. “Get security in here!” Ethan ignored her. “System, save her. Save her now!” [Emergency Medical Protocol Activated.] Analyzing bloodstream… Toxin Detected: Type-C neuroagent. Source: IV fluid. Countermeasure Initiated. Injecting anti-serum via NeuralSync Port. Administering micro-drones for clot reversal and cardiac stabilization. The HUD flashed red and gold in his eyes. His knees hit the cold tile. His hand found hers—cold, trembling, slipping away. “Come on, Ma… Please. Please, don’t leave me. Not after everything. You’re all I have…” Seconds ticked like hours. Her heart monitor shrieked once… then steadied. Again… and steadied more. A nurse gasped. “What the… she’s stabilizing? How?!” Ethan didn’t answer. He just bowed his head, trembling as he whispered against her knuckles, “Thank you… thank you…” [Stabilization Complete. Recommend 48-hour neural observation. Target will survive.] But Ethan ’s eyes were already different. The raw fear was gone. Replaced with something cold. Rage. The kind that doesn’t explode… but simmers. Boils. Evolves. ⸻ He sat alone in the hallway, staring at his hands. They were still shaking. [Source of toxin traced.] Accessing hospital surveillance. Reverse-tracking all movement tied to IV entry.] Match found. Subject: Unlicensed male, approx. 42, disguised as janitor. Affiliation: Brooks Corp Private Black Ops. Ethan didn’t speak for a long moment. Then: “Give me his face. And the name of the one who paid him.” [Generating Facial Recognition Match…] Name: David Sloan . Brooks Corp Level-3 Security. Orders authorized by: Lin Bai.] Ethan stood. Straightened his collar. Walked to the vending machine, calm as a man about to attend a funeral. “System,” he said quietly. “Track Lin Bai’s current location.” [Location: Brooks Mansion. Private Dining Hall. ETA: 22 minutes by drone.] Ethan smiled, but there was no humor in it. “Then let’s go crash dinner.” ⸻ Twenty-two minutes later, a black drone—sleek, silent, military-grade—descended into the private courtyard of the Brooks family’s fortress-like estate. Inside, the family sat around a long table. Roasted duck, wine glasses, laughter. Brooks Lili was mid-toast. “To the death of pests,” she said smugly, her eyes glinting. “And the return of our company’s honor.” Lin Bai leaned back, smug. “That should teach that street rat to know his place. Honestly, I don’t know why you even married trash like him.” Suddenly— THUNK. Something dropped onto the center of the table. A small, metallic sphere. The room went still. “What the hell is that—” CLICK. The drone unfolded. Projected a hologram into the air. It was Ethan ’s face. Smirking. “I told you not to touch my mother.” “Now you’ll see what real tech is.” The lights in the room flickered. The fireplace died. The temperature dropped as power surged. Every camera on the walls rotated toward them. The steel dining room doors slammed shut automatically. Locking. The drone emitted a soft chime. Then: [Brooks Family Internal Network: Breached.] [Security Systems: Disabled.] [Comm Units: Jammed.] [Backup Generators: Offline.] [Firewall Status: Bypassed.] All over the mansion, security went black. Phones went dead. Alarms failed to ring. And every speaker in the home echoed the same line: “Welcome to the Void.”
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The Night He Didn’t Sleep
(Very long, emotional, slow-burn, full tension)**Mirko didn’t make it ten steps from her door before the battle started.Not the physical kind he was trained for.The internal kind he never won.Her scent still lingered on his hoodie.Her voice still echoed in his head.Her eyes—God, those eyes—still held him like gentle chains.He reached the end of the hallway, stopped, and leaned his back against the wall.Just stood there.Breathing like he’d run miles.Hands buried in his hair.Trying to shake her off.Failing miserably.Why does she make it so hard to walk away?Why did she look at me like that?Why did I go back? Why did I leave again?Questions he had no business asking.Questions only she could answer.He closed his eyes and exhaled through his teeth.He could still feel the warmth of her cheek beneath his fingertips.Still feel the tremble in her breath when he told her he wanted her.Still feel the way she leaned in—tiny, barely there, but enough to ruin him.Mirko cursed
He Didn’t Go Home. He Couldn’t.
(VERY long, full-chapter, cinematic, emotional, slow-burn tension—exactly your style.)**Mirko told himself he was going home.He really did.He walked down the street.He put the helmet on.He sat on the bike.He even turned the key——and then he just sat there.Engine humming.Heart louder.Hands frozen on the handlebars even though every part of him screamed Go home, Mirko. Leave before you ruin something. Leave before you want what you shouldn’t want.He didn’t move.Not forward.Not backward.Just… sat in the dim street like a man wrestling a ghost wearing her face.He replayed the last three minutes in his head.Her voice.Her eyes.Her bare, quiet “You don’t have to walk away.”Her standing there in a T-shirt, hair loose, the soft kind of beautiful that wasn’t meant to be tempting but was.And her disappointment when he stepped back.That part stabbed.He let out a shaky exhale, dropping his head against the bike’s handlebars.He wasn’t supposed to care this much.He wasn’t sup
He Shouldn’t Have Gone Back… But He Did
Mirko lasted twenty minutes.Twenty.Twenty minutes of lying on his bed, staring at the ceiling like a man fighting for his life while the echo of her “Goodnight, Mirko” kept replaying in his skull.It wasn’t even what she said.It was how she said it.Soft.Warm.Like she trusted him.Like she wanted him there, even when she didn’t say it out loud.It ate at him.It pulled at him.It dragged him by the collar back into the memory of her eyes right before she walked into her room—eyes that held something he couldn’t name yet, something that made his pulse spike in a way even danger never had.Mirko sat up abruptly.No.He wasn’t doing this again.Not pacing.Not overthinking.Not talking himself out of what he already knew he was going to do.He grabbed his hoodie from the chair, shoved it on, and snatched his keys from the table.He didn’t text her.He didn’t warn her.He just left.The door slammed behind him—softly, because he wasn’t actually angry; he was restless. That was worse.
The Weight of His Name on Her Skin
The walk back from the café wasn’t supposed to feel like this.It wasn’t supposed to feel like the city had quieted just for them.Like the breeze had softened.Like the world had shifted half a degree to the left—just enough to make space for something new, something cautious, something fragile and frighteningly powerful.But it did.Mirko walked beside her in that deliberate way of his—hands in his pockets, shoulders straight, stride controlled, eyes scanning the street with a habit he’d never shake. Except today… it wasn’t the usual vigilance.Today, every few steps, his gaze flicked toward her.Not obviously.Not dramatically.But enough that she felt it like heat brushing against her cheek.He wasn’t checking the surroundings.He was checking her.As if making sure she was still here.As if making sure she wasn’t about to slip away.When they reached the street where they’d part ways, he slowed.She stopped too.The wind caught a strand of her hair and dragged it across her face.
The Art of Staying Close
The café was quiet in a way that felt almost unreal.Soft clinks of cutlery.Muted conversations drifting like gentle background static.Warm light pooling over wooden tables.And there—across from her—Mirko sat with his coffee untouched, fingers wrapped around the cup like he needed the anchor more than the drink.He looked… calmer.Not fully relaxed.Not fully open.But calm in a way she’d never seen on him before.And watching him like this—bare, unguarded, entirely human—made something warm gather beneath her ribs.“You’re staring,” he murmured without looking up.She blinked. “I’m not.”“You are.”“Well… maybe a little.”He finally lifted his eyes.Steady.Focused.Soft in a way he would never admit.“What are you thinking?” she asked.He hesitated for a beat—just long enough to show he considered lying.Then he didn’t.“That you look… peaceful this morning,” he said quietly.The confession surprised her more than the content itself.Mirko wasn’t someone who said gentle things c
The Weight He Never Dropped
Morning light spilled into the room in soft gold bars.Not harsh.Not sharp.Just warm enough to feel like the world, for once, was not in a rush to tear itself open.Mirko stood at the window, towel around his waist, hair still damp, watching the sky with a stillness that wasn’t peaceful—but thoughtful.His back was to her, but she could read him even from here.The locked shoulders.The quiet breathing.The hands loosely curled at his sides.The way he stood like someone waiting for something to strike.She pushed the blanket off and sat up.“Hey,” she said softly.He didn’t turn immediately.But he heard her.He always did.“You’re awake,” he murmured.“Yes.” She slid her feet onto the floor. “You left the shower fast.”“I didn’t want to fog the room too much.”A beat.“And I needed air.”She crossed the space between them, stopping beside him.Outside, the world looked normal—quiet streets, pale sunlight, drifting clouds.But he wasn’t looking at the world.He was looking past it
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