He let her go to have her all

The sun rises slowly, warmth radiating from the gleaming red and orange clouds.

Their wings hold hope—a flock of birds soars high, over the mountains, across the seas, beyond the deserts.

The night travelers open the door to daylight. They draw a trail behind them, seeking a home nestled in the sweet serenity of the woods—where no one intrudes.

The train comes to a halt, its entrance bustling with people surging out. The way finally clears.

Rhett steps off first, places the luggage down, and offers his hand. Neva lays hers gently over his, climbing down onto the tiled floor with care.

He lifts the wheeled suitcase and pushes along the black stroller, its lower basket packed with baby Rhean's diaper bag and other essentials.

A maroon shawl with floral prints drapes Neva's frame. She adjusts it, folding it protectively over the sleeping infant pressed to her chest, cradled snug in a beige fabric wrap.

It's safer this way—with Rhean close to her heart—should chaos erupt and separate them.

Around them, the station hums with urgency, loud announcements echoing overhead, feet rushing in all directions. Though Rhett's hands are full, his presence stays close beside her—sheltering.

And then—his breath catches.

Far off, through the slits of the crowd, he sees her.

His heart floats and crashes in the same breath—creased brows, eyes dazed, euphoric at her sight, shattered at what unfolds.

He starts walking. Dazed. Determined.

She's not far. He can still reach her. He can still pull her close.

A shoulder bumps into his—he doesn't notice. He's hushed and unconscious even if he's cursed.

"Raka!" a voice calls from behind, but he doesn't turn.

People push, trying to halt him. The call is swallowed by the morning rush.

Still, he walks.

A hand lands on her shoulder.

She flinches, halts. Slowly, she turns.

A gasp escapes her lips, breath caught in her chest.

"Ishmael—" she whispers.

His eyes glisten. He swallows the thick lump in his throat. Neva stands before him—his dream, his everything.

She's just as she was that December—the last time he saw her.

Perfect.

Frozen in place, she doesn't move as he reaches out to touch her face.

But before his fingers make contact—

A heavy punch lands square on his jaw. His head snaps sideways. He stumbles back, barely registering the blow.

Neva gasps.

Rhett steps forward and throws another hit—harder.

Ishmael crashes to the ground.

For a fleeting moment, the crowd pauses. Though the world spins madly on, here and now, time stutters.

What in the world is happening this early in the morning?

Rhett steps in front of Neva, pulling her behind his broad frame.

She lowers her gaze, heart pounding, arms tightening around the sleeping child.

The train departs again—and so does the world.

Ishmael wipes the blood from the corner of his mouth with his thumb. He stands, peering through the thinning crowd at her face.

Her eyes—no longer his—avoid him, distant and afraid.

Then he feels cold steel at his head.

A gun. Pressed firmly. Rhett's.

They lock eyes.

Ishmael smirks faintly, a shadow in his gaze.

"Looks like you were in a hurry to build a family."

Rhett clenches his jaw. "Stop. Chasing. Us."

"Rhett," Neva whispers. Her face pales.

Rhett glances up. A man approaches from the distance, pistol aimed at him.

He remembers him—Raka's right hand.

A surprise ambush? No—he would've sensed more.

But Raka's gaze doesn't break. He lifts a hand, brushing the weapon in Zev's grasp down, signaling restraint.

Eyes still fixed on Rhett, he steps forward.

"Don't you dare," Rhett growls, his voice low and forbidding.

Unfazed, Ishmael advances with slow, heavy steps.

He stops just before him.

"A sniper's up there," he says calmly, "One signal from me, and someone dies."

Rhett's pupils contract.

People around start walking again—sidestepping the standoff. The crowd clears. Life goes on.

No one dares intervene in strangers' crossfire.

Ishmael's gaze flickers back to Neva.

He edges closer. Rhett blocks the way, eyes dark and grim.

Ishmael reaches out. Neva recoils, shivering.

Their eyes meet—hers glassy and frightened, his wild with longing and grief.

"Come with me, Neva," he pleads. "I've waited long enough. Please."

She shakes her head, voice trembling. "Please stop... stop messing with me."

"I'm not." He inches closer. "I need you."

She backs away. "No. Let us leave. Please…"

He stops. His voice softens. "I don't like to force you."

But then his expression darkens—emotionless. His next words, sharp as glass:

"But you'll hate me if you walk away. Because I'll kill anyone who stands between us."

His voice turns cold, lethal. "I'll hunt you down. Wherever you run."

She stiffens, barely breathing.

Rhett doesn't flinch. "You can try," he replies coolly.

He grips Neva's hand. "Let's go."

They walk away—her hand clutched tightly in his. A fragile, perfect picture of a small, sacred family.

Behind them, Ishmael stands—still, silent with dim eyes. Silently dying inside.

"Shouldn't we stop Miss Neva?" Zev asks, uncertain, watching his boss's chilling stillness.

Raka's voice is flat. "Next time we cross paths, she'll beg me to change her fate."

Zev hesitates. "Not even spare her child?"

"No," Raka says. He turns away, striding toward the helicopter.

Zev hurries to keep up. "When did you arrange a sniper?"

Raka's mouth curves faintly. "I bluffed."

Zev blinks, stunned. "So Agent Czar knew you lied?"