He stood in the middle of the wreckage, suit soaked in blood, barking orders through clenched teeth.
When he saw her— unconscious, pale, carried down the stairs in someone else's arms—everything stopped.
"Who shot her?!"
No one answered.
"She's losing too much blood."
"I said—who the fuck shot her?!"
But there was no time for rage. She was dying.
They drove like hell. He didn't look back. Just the mirror. Just her face. Just the blood.
"Please be okay," he whispered.
The ring on her finger blinked once. A dying light. Like it was saying goodbye.
Goodbye.