Bang!
I winced as the deafening crack of the gunshot slammed into my ear. My entire body tingled with the shockwave, every old wound throbbing as if freshly ripped open.
Bang!
Another gunshot followed, punctuated by loud, cruel laughter. I slowly opened my eyes and the first thing I saw was my own battered legs. Blood dripped onto the filthy floor, my jeans ripped and torn from the impact.
Bang!
A bullet grazed my thigh. A mere scratch—but it hurt. I yelped, feeling the fabric tear against raw flesh. Another round of laughter echoed through the room, mocking me, taunting me, as I lifted my head to see what awaited ahead.
Carlos sat casually in a folding chair, a cigarette clamped between his fingers, a gun in hand, his grin impossibly wide. Behind him, three men loitered, silent sentinels of menace. My gaze swept the room—broken windows, grimy walls, the stench of filth and rats assaulting my senses.
"C-C-Carlos..." I whispered, voice weak and trembling.
"Awake now?" His tone was deceptively calm as he rose from his chair and walked toward me.
My head felt like lead, heavy before he even reached me. Not dizzy—just the oppressive weight of exhaustion and pain pressing down on me. He grabbed a fistful of my hair, tilting my face upward to look at him.
"Awake, are you?" he repeated, amusement flickering in his eyes.
I couldn't bring myself to smile, yet something primal broke loose inside me—a laugh bubbling out despite the agony, brief, sharp, almost hysterical. Carlos blinked, surprised. I wanted to stop, but the laughter was shallow and uncontrollable, a tickle I couldn't suppress.
Then I noticed the chains. My hands were shackled above my head, wrists locked, body dangling slightly though my feet barely touched the floor. A cruel, immovable puppet.
Carlos's gaze lingered on me. "So, you've opened my gift," he said with a smirk, releasing my hair.
Gift?
His men approached to pry at the chains. I collapsed to the ground, feeling my pale arms scrape the rough floor, blood flowing freely. The fall hit hard; my legs felt like they had no bones. Pain radiated through my body, but instead of crying out, laughter erupted from me again, raw and defiant.
"Damn, boss. This one's flying high," one of them commented with a chuckle.
"Let's wait and see," Carlos called back, striding toward his chair. "I want to see if she's really that good an actress."
High. They must have drugged me.
Their chatter, once loud and dominant, faded gradually into a blur of background noise. The room grew silent, the laughter disappearing, leaving only a deafening emptiness. I stopped laughing. I was alone. The drug blurred my senses—I couldn't tell if this was reality or hallucination.
Then the door creaked open. My vision sharpened as a familiar horror entered. Benedict dragged Ace's lifeless body across the threshold, blood still trickling from his mouth. Ace's eyes met mine, vacant, unblinking.
"Hello, Xena," Benedict greeted casually.
He knelt beside Ace, pressing the barrel of a gun to his temple. Ace lay prone, face toward me, eyes wide and dead, a frozen reflection of the night he had died before. Benedict's handiwork was grotesque—the back of Ace's head gaping, a cruel echo of that fateful night.
"Stay away from him!" I screamed, trying to rise, only to realize my body refused. "Stay away from Ace! You monster!"
Benedict laughed, thick blood sliding from his mouth. My stomach knotted with fear as his finger hovered over the trigger.
"No! No!" I cried, stretching my hand toward Ace, but he was too far.
Benedict squeezed the trigger. The gun roared. The sound hammered into me, each shot tearing through my chest. I caught a stray tear from Ace's eye before cold water poured over me, snapping me out of the hallucination.
I gasped, eyes wide. Carlos and his men were there, watching me writhe on the floor, frozen in terror, soaked, weeping.
"Told you, Xena, she's a good actress," Carlos said, stepping closer, extinguishing his cigarette against my arm. Pain flared where the ember burned my skin, but I didn't scream. Ace's image lingered at the back of my mind.
He toyed with the gun, speaking casually. "So, what's your connection to Damian's little heir? Close, huh? Your… favorite? Huh."
I didn't answer. I squeezed my eyes shut, wishing I hadn't seen Ace at all.
Carlos chuckled. "Don't worry, Xena. I have no personal grudge. You're just a small-time assassin—but you're expensive. Your head has a price on it."
"Damian paid you?" I demanded, voice hoarse, still lying on the floor.
"Sort of, not exactly," he replied. "Mr. Governor wanted you dead for killing his sons, so he talked to me. Damian? He just killed the Governor. And he brought me the agreed sum to take you out. We have a ceasefire for now. He's my client."
I muttered to myself, bitter and exhausted.
Carlos leaned closer, a teasing glint in his eye. "You know, you could survive—if you agreed to be one of my operatives. Good pay, bright future. What do you say, Xena?"
I didn't answer. If Damian discovered I lived, Kiel and my father would pay the price. I couldn't allow that.
Carlos sighed and stood. "Okay, I'll wait for your answer. A shame to waste talent." He turned to his men, who approached with syringes and small vials. My hands and feet were bound, helpless.
"Let go of me!" I struggled, powerless against them.
"Relax. Boss will let you see your favorite again," one of them laughed, preparing the drug.
PCP. My eyes widened. "How many times?" I asked before they injected me.
"Third. Boss combined the first two," they said with laughter.
I bit my lip, bracing for the hallucinogen to take hold. The fear wasn't of death—it was of seeing Ace's death again, of reliving that torment, over and over.
"Please… enough," I whispered into the empty room, tears streaming. "Kiel… where are you?"
The sobs racked my body, the loneliness suffocating. Anyone… anyone save me…