Injured

Author's POV

"Thankfully, her injuries aren't very deep. They will heal, especially with care. But her mental health-she's very likely to be traumatized unless she's... accustomed to such things." The lady doctor handed over the prescription with a grave expression. "I've prescribed some medicines. She's under anesthesia for now and should wake up soon. Please make sure she's taken care of. I'll take my leave now."

He nodded, his jaw clenched as he accepted the papers from her. Escorting her out, he motioned to Mr. Jung to accompany her. Once the door closed behind them, he exhaled deeply and turned back toward the room. As he stepped inside, the sight before him made his stomach twist.

She lay there, fragile and lifeless, like a broken doll. Her lips were cracked and bleeding, her face pale with an angry red handprint standing stark against her delicate skin-proof of a slap she endured. His fists curled tightly, the veins on his hands bulging. If he found the hands that dared to harm her, he would sever them and shove them down their owner's throat.

Her arms were covered in bandages, her knees bruised and scratched, the blue-black marks spreading ominously. His heart-one he thought had long turned cold-shattered into a million irreparable shards. And he, the cause of her suffering, felt the guilt claw at his insides.

His mind flashed back to her innocent question, the one that haunted him now. "What will I do if they come after me again?" she'd asked, her voice trembling with fear. And what had he done? He had assured her, promised her safety. And now? Now, all he wanted was to kill himself for breaking her trust.

The rage he buried deep within, hidden from the world, simmered, threatening to spill over. His dark aura seemed to engulf the room, his eyes burning red with uncontained fury. Slowly, he reached out, his hand trembling, and traced the outline of her battered face. Bruises marred her once perfect features, and the image fueled his wrath even further.

Straightening, he grabbed his leather jacket from the back of the chair and dialed Mr. Jung. His voice was cold and sharp, devoid of any mercy. "Prepare everything. I'll handle this myself."

It was cold, damp, and suffocating in the dimly lit basement. The air reeked of fear and blood. Two men knelt on the floor, their hands bound behind their backs, heads (lolling in semi-consciousness. Their bodies trembled as icy water was dumped over them, jolting them awake.

Their gaze flickered up, locking onto his imposing figure. He sat casually on a chair, man-spreading as though he owned the entire world, a gun twirling in one hand. The clicking of his boots on the concrete floor sent chills down their spines as he approached, crouching down in front of one of the men.

With a swift movement, he grabbed a fistful of the man's hair and yanked his head up, the force so brutal it felt like his skull might split open. "Who sent you?" he growled, his voice laced with menace.

The man stared at him in silence, his (ips quivering but refusing to move.

"I asked who sent you!" he barked again, this time signaling his men. One of them handed him a gleaming knife. Without hesitation, he plunged the blade into the man's thigh, eliciting a blood-curdling scream.

"I need an answer," he demanded, twisting the knife for emphasis. "I-I'll answer!" the man cried out, his voice strained with pain.

"Speak."

"We... we work under an organization. Our boss... he gets orders and money. We don't know who ordered this. M-maybe the boss knows."

Unsatisfied, he stabbed the man again, ignoring the wail of agony. "The name of the organization. And your boss?"

"The... The Shadow," the man stammered, breathing heavily. "Our boss goes by the name Black Shadow. No one knows his real identity. He only deals with powerful people..."

A smirk tugged at Aksh's lips. "Really now?" he murmured.

The man's eyes flickered with growing horror as he noticed the tattoo peeking from beneath Aksh's shirt. Recognition dawned, and his face paled Aksh straightened, cocking the gun without hesitation. "Finish them," he ordered coldly, shooting the man without a second thought. "We don't need them anymore. Especially now that he knows wholam." His voice dripped with malice as he walked out of the basement.

Ahana's POV

Pain. That was the first thing I felt as my consciousness returned. Every inch of my body ached, my limbs heavy and unresponsive. My vision blurred as I tried to make sense of my surroundings. Where was 1? What had happened?

Images of those men flashed through my mind-their cruel laughter, their hands dragging me mercilessly. I shuddered, my breath hitching. I was supposed to die. I should've died.

The doorknob twisted, and my heart stopped again? Fear surged through me as the door creaked open. But instead of a stranger, it was him.

Our eyes met, and for a moment, the world seemed to pause.

Author's POV

Their gazes locked, exchanging words without speaking. His eyes were a tempest of regret, anger, possessiveness, and a fierce protectiveness. Hers brimmed with pain, relief, and an aching need for solace.

He walked toward her and stopped by the bed, his presence commanding yet tender. She looked down, her expression unreadable. Leaning closer, he asked softly, "Are you okay?"

She didn't respond.

"Don't be afraid. You're safe here. Do you need anything?" he tried again, his voice more desperate this time

Still, no reply.

Sighing, he straightened, ready to leave "call me when you are ready to talk", but her small hand caught the sleeve of his jacket. His breath hitched as she pressed her head against his wrist and broke down.

"I'm not okay. I'm not okay at all. Please... don't leave me. Please." Her words spilled out in between sobs, her grip tightening as though he were her last lifeline.

He froze, her raw vulnerability shattering him. Slowly, he raised his other hand, gently patting her head. Sinking to his knees, he cupped her chin, lifting her face to meet his.

Her tear-filled eyes gazed into his, and in that moment, nothing else mattered.