KENJI
The private elevator feels like an eternity. She is a dead weight in my arms, but her shallow, fevered breaths against my neck are the only proof I need that she's alive.
The doors slide open directly into the living room, and I carry her straight through to the bedroom—our bedroom.
I lay her down on the dark duvet as gently as I can. The contrast is brutal. Her pale, bruised skin against the clean, expensive linen.
The remnants of the torn dress. My tactical jacket swallowed her whole, but now it falls open, revealing the map of her suffering.
The red marks on her throat from his hands. The faint, dark bruise on her hip, my bruise, a brand he tried to wash away.
A cold, silent fury locks my joints. I stand over her, watching the fragile rise and fall of her chest. I can still smell the filth of that warehouse on her, the ghost of stagnant water and blood.
I don't leave her side. I simply pull out my phone and press a single speed-dial number.
