RISE OF THE EX-CONVICT

CHAPTER 6

     The moment the men in black witnessed India collapse into Niçholas's embrace, they lunged forward with urgency. "What have you done to her? Why isn't she responding? What did you do?" their voices rasped with accusation, cutting through the air like a serrated knife.

    Niçholas's heart pounded with both worry and determination as he gently eased India onto the cold floor, his hands trembling with a mix of fear and tenderness. The sight of her pale, lifeless face drained of color sent a surge of panic through him. Her labored breaths echoed through the silent cafeteria, the stillness broken only by the hushed whispers of onlookers.

    Niçholas, his brow furrowed in deep concern, tapped India's cheek lightly, urging her to say something and not stop breathing. Every passing second only heightened the realization that her condition was rapidly deteriorating. Sweat glistened on her forehead, a chilling testament to the internal battle consuming her fragile body. What could have suddenly happened to her?

   "I can't bear the guilt if anything happens to her," Niçholas muttered under his breath, his voice laced with desperation and he looked up at one of the men, "You guys need to calm down. Has this ever happened to her before?" he asked.

    One of the men in black, his voice dripping with icy demand, snarled at Niçholas, his gaze searing with accusation. "What is wrong with our mistress? Why won't she respond? If any harm comes to her, you will not escape unscathed. What do you even mean by has this happened to her before? Did she look ill when she came in here? She has always been the healthy mistress,"

    Niçholas sighed heavily, his voice trembling with a mix of worry and resolve. "I said I did nothing to her. She stood up and started gasping for breath. I believe she's having an asthma attack and I don't think she has her inhaler around, you should know this. You all know she is asthmatic," he murmured, his words hanging in the air like a heavy fog. The gravity of the situation enveloped them, suffocating their hopes for a quick resolution.

    "Then we must rush her to the hospital! If she's having an asthma attack, then it must be something big, we can't just keep talking" one of the armed men insisted, his voice tinged with urgency.

    But Niçholas shook his head, not wavering in his stance. "No, there's no time, we can take her to the hospital. And if we call an ambulance, it's going to take at least five minutes before they get here. I can handle this. Just trust me and stay calm, and do not distract me," he asserted firmly, his words met with skeptical glances and furrowed brows from the men in black.

    Before they could protest further, Niçholas extended his hands and began rubbing India's chest, his movements purposeful and unwavering.

    The scene that unfolded before them was odd and captivating - an unassuming man, devoid of medical knowledge, desperately fighting to save India's life amidst a sea of curious onlookers. 

    India, her breaths shallow and labored, struggled to comprehend the chaos swirling around her, her emotions a tangled web of shyness, fear, and anger. She couldn't fathom the purity of Niçholas's intentions. Instead, she felt violated, like a helpless prey being exploited by a predator and her guards were doing nothing? She thought while she also fought for her life.

    The men in black, initially shocked into silence, now simmered with fury. How could they stand by idly as their mistress appeared to be subjected to unwarranted advances? One of them, fueled by anger and protectiveness, gripped Niçholas's arms fiercely, intent on removing him from India's side.

    "Get away from her, you shameless whore," 

    But Niçholas refused to yield, his convictions etched firmly onto his determined face. He met the guards' enraged gazes with unwavering determination.

    "If you truly wish to keep her safe," he hissed, his voice low and commanding, "then I suggest you take one step back. If you keep distracting me, there's no way I can treat her."

    The guards faltered, torn between their duty to protect India and the potential threat Niçholas posed. They exchanged hesitant glances, their expressions a reflection of the internal turmoil that engulfed them.

     Minutes stretched into an eternity as the cafeteria descended into a tense limbo. And then, in a sudden eruption of sound, India convulsed, unleashing a guttural cry that expelled a violent cough, black blood staining her trembling lips. Niçholas leapt away with remarkable agility, dodging the darkened fluid that cascaded forth. Color surged back into India's pallid face, her breathing gradually steadying.

    The men in black recoiled in horror, their movements cautious, their fear palpable. One of them found the courage to speak, his voice laced with trepidation. "What is happening to her, Mr. Man? Why is she bleeding?" he asked, his words a mere whisper carried on a gust of unease.

     Niçholas, his eyes fixed on India, stepped back slowly, his voice carrying a reassuring tone. "It's normal. She will recover. She's going to be okay just give her a minute," he replied with conviction, relief washing over him like a soothing balm in the aftermath of the storm.

    Once she had fully recovered and regained her footing, India's anger was palpable. Her eyes blazed with fury as she pointed a trembling finger at Niçholas, her voice forcefully cutting through the charged atmosphere. "Surround him," she commanded her guards, her tone icy and resolute. She was done allowing anyone to infringe upon her boundaries, to take advantage of her vulnerability. 

    The men in black moved swiftly, forming a protective barrier around Niçholas. Each guard bore expressions of anger and disbelief, their loyalty to India overriding any potential threat Niçholas might pose. The room trembled with tension, charged with anticipation of what would happen next.

   "What are you doing India? What's going on here?" Niçholas asked, his face etched with confusion as he stared into India's eyes.

    India's voice, seething with restrained anger, sliced through the air. "Explain yourself, Niçholas. What kind of treatment was that, rubbing my chest without my consent? And your explanation had better be damn good." Her eyes bore into his, demanding answers, as she awaited his response.