⚠️Graphical Violence depicted within the chapter. Reader's discretion is advised ⚠️

"Heartless?" I echoed, keeping my tone soft. "That's not a word I'd jump to call you, Damian. But... it sounds like connecting with people on a deeper level is something you avoid. Do you think you're... guarded?"

He steepled his fingers, looking contemplative. "Maybe," he murmured, though he sounded unconvinced. "I know what she felt—the betrayal, the anger. I understand it, but... I don't feel it."

He spoke with such matter-of-fact detachment that it was almost jarring. Yet there was something there, an undertone of yearning to feel what he couldn't. It was as though he wanted to feel remorse, even empathy, but was too distanced from those emotions to grasp them fully.

"Sometimes," I said gently, "the things we don't feel are as telling as the things we do. If empathy is hard to access, it might be because we've walled ourselves off to protect something fragile underneath."

His brows furrowed slightly, the faintest hint of vulnerability breaking through his composure.

"Hearing that from you... it makes me wonder if I even have a wall," he said, his voice quiet. "Or if there's just... nothing behind it."

A pang of sadness welled up in me at his words, but I stayed silent, letting him lead. He had asked about me earlier, but I couldn't shake the feeling that he needed this space more than I did now.

"I've spent so long feeling like an outsider," he admitted, his gaze distant.

"Watching people from a distance, interacting only when it benefits me, only when it serves a purpose. It's like... life is something I observe but don't participate in. She was just another piece in the game—a means to an end."

There was an honesty in his tone that resonated, an openness he rarely allowed himself. It made me wonder what had shaped him this way, what had carved out such emotional distance.

"That must get lonely," I offered gently, giving him a small lifeline if he wanted to reach out for it.

A faint smile played at his lips, hollow and guarded. "Lonely? Perhaps. But it's... safe." He exhaled, a quiet, almost reluctant sigh. "You know what happens when we let people in. They disappoint us. They leave."

I recognized the truth of his words, the bitter acceptance behind them. Part of me wanted to contradict him, to offer hope that not every connection ended in disappointment, but I knew that wasn't what he needed.

"Safety has its place," I said softly. "But it can also be a prison. Isolation might feel like protection, but it keeps us from experiencing anything real. Anything lasting." I hesitated, feeling a strange, empathetic ache. "Maybe if you risked feeling a little more, it wouldn't just be pain waiting on the other side."

He held my gaze, his expression a mix of uncertainty and curiosity, as if my words had struck an unfamiliar chord.

"And you, Ruby?" he asked suddenly, catching me off guard. "You've felt that pain, haven't you? You know what it's like to lose that trust."

The question stirred something raw in me, a reminder of my brother's recent disappointment, the wounds still fresh. I glanced down at my hands, feeling the ache surface again. "Yes," I admitted quietly. "I know that pain. Too well."

His gaze softened, and for a brief moment, it was as if he understood more about me than I'd intended to share. "Yet you're here," he murmured. "Trying to help others feel what you're no longer willing to feel."

I looked up, meeting his eyes, feeling their quiet intensity. "Maybe... helping others is my way of helping myself. Even if we're broken, there's something healing about guiding others through their pain."

He considered my words, his expression thoughtful, and for a moment, I could almost see the man behind the mask. "Maybe," he said softly, as though speaking to himself. "Maybe there's something to that."

We sat in silence, the unspoken understanding lingering between us. When he finally stood to leave, I felt a strange reluctance to end the moment, as if his presence had kept my own pain at bay.

"Thank you, Ruby," he said, his voice softer, holding a glimmer of something vulnerable. "For... listening."

"That's what I'm here for," I replied, offering a small, genuine smile.

As he turned to go, I felt a quiet connection in the wake of his presence—a fleeting sense of shared understanding that lingered, even after he was gone.

🏡🏡

The morning had been calm. Sapphire's smile had been my reward after hours spent filling out forms and meeting with school administrators, each handshake and piece of paperwork a small step toward securing her future.

By the time I returned home, the quiet was welcome—familiar, comforting. My one client session left me drained, and I let the day's routine coax me into a nap.

I awoke to the soft glow of evening, feeling a sense of renewal. Dinner—spaghetti carbonara—was calling, and I moved around the kitchen, savoring the small acts of chopping, stirring, and mixing.

Then, the garlic jar was missing. I laughed to myself, realizing I'd set it aside days ago to remind myself to buy more. I grabbed my coat, deciding the walk to the store would be a relaxing close to the day.

The grocery store's harsh fluorescent lights contrasted with the tranquil dusk outside. I wandered the aisles, mentally checking off the things I needed, my heart unexpectedly lifting at the thought of seeing Gabriel, hoping he'd be there with his usual easy smile. He was a highlight in these otherwise mundane errands, a comforting presence I found myself looking forward to.

When I finally spotted him, he was moving briskly, without his usual leisurely air. His brow was furrowed, eyes sharp, as if focused on something more pressing. I felt a pang of concern and found myself following him out, curiosity guiding my steps.

The evening air was cool, a light breeze stirring as I walked a few paces behind him, unsure if I should call out. As I turned a corner, the quiet street came into view, and I saw three figures closing in on Gabriel. In the dim light, their stance was unmistakable—predatory, menacing.

My heart hammered, fear and disbelief crashing over me. I wanted to yell for help, to run toward him, but my feet felt rooted to the ground, terror paralyzing me. In the silence, I heard the sickening thud of fists meeting flesh, and Gabriel's low groans cut through the night, sharp and raw. Each hit landed with merciless force, and with each one, my chest tightened.

Suddenly, flames burst around him, illuminating the attackers' grim faces, and Gabriel's scream tore through the stillness. The air was thick with smoke and fear, my own breaths shallow and panicked. Then came the crack of gunshots, each one an electric jolt through my bones. I couldn't move; I couldn't look away.

Then, in the haze of shock, I realized my groceries had slipped from my grip, shattering in an echoing crash on the pavement. The noise drew the attention of the hooded figures, and one of them turned, his gaze locking onto me with predatory intent.

My heart leaped into my throat as he started toward me, his steps deliberate, eyes shadowed beneath his hood. I fumbled for my phone, my hands shaking uncontrollably. But before I could even swipe to unlock it, the phone slipped through my fingers, landing with a dull thud on the pavement.

Panic surged as he closed the distance, and I stumbled back, desperately trying to stay upright. My breaths came in sharp gasps as I backed away, my eyes scanning for any possible escape.

Before I could react, he lunged, his hand clamping down on the back of my neck, his grip like iron. I thrashed, adrenaline giving me strength as I reached for anything, my hand closing around a discarded glass bottle. With a frantic swing, I smashed it against his face, the sound of breaking glass mingling with his grunt of pain as blood trickled down his cheek.

But my small victory was short-lived. With a fierce growl, he lashed out, his fist connecting with my temple, sending a shockwave of pain through my skull. My vision blurred, my steps unsteady as I fought to remain standing.

He was on me again in seconds, his hands wrapped around my throat, his grip unyielding. I clawed at him, nails sinking into his skin, drawing blood as I struggled against the tightening vise around my neck. My vision started to darken, the edges blurring, my breaths shallow and frantic.

Then, faintly, over the pounding in my head, I heard them—sirens, cutting through the night, a beacon of hope amidst the chaos. The attacker's grip faltered for an instant, and with a final surge of strength, I shoved against him, my scream lost in the wail of the approaching police.

The world tilted, and as I collapsed to the ground, everything went dark.

💔💔

It had been a few days since I left the hospital, though the weight of it all hadn't left me. Frida had barely left my side while I was there. I could tell she was terrified—not just of what had happened, but of what could have been. Her voice had trembled when she spoke, her usual confidence replaced with something fragile, raw.

I hated seeing her like that, knowing I'd put her through it. She kept reminding me how much I mattered, how I was family to her. It was a sentiment I clung to, even if I wasn't sure I deserved it.

The hospital itself had been a blur—endless checks, pokes, and prods from doctors who all seemed too chipper for what I felt inside. The MRI had been the worst. I remember lying perfectly still as the machine clanged and whirred around me. My eyes were closed, but the sound did nothing to block out the memories.

Gabriel's screams still echoed in my mind, raw and unrelenting. The sheer agony in his voice as he fought against the flames—it was unbearable. I could feel the helplessness all over again, standing there frozen, unable to do anything as his life was ripped away in the cruelest way imaginable.

The memory of his pain clung to me, but it wasn't just that. It was the fear that had gripped me when one of them turned on me, his hands crushing the breath from my lungs. I remember thinking that this was it—that I would never see my family again, never get the chance to make things right. The weight of every mistake, every regret, came crashing down in those moments.

I don't even know how I survived. Somehow, I clawed my way out of it, but the thought of how close I'd come to dying—to leaving this world on such a sour note with the people I loved—it still leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I've spent so long running from my past, and now it feels like it's all catching up to me in the most twisted ways.

Frida's home had become a refuge for me, its warmth and vibrant energy offering comfort I didn't know I needed. But even here, surrounded by her care and kindness, the ache for normalcy lingered, sharp and unyielding. The weight of Gabriel's passing pressed down on me like a constant shadow, making it hard to appreciate the life that continued around me.

Earlier today, Frida had tried to lift my spirits in her usual thoughtful way. When Sapphire stepped into the room, her bright face full of excitement, it was like the clouds parted for a moment. Seeing my sister again was overwhelming, a flood of emotions I wasn't prepared for. Holding her in my arms felt like reconnecting with a piece of myself I thought I'd lost—a reminder of home, of something untouched by the darkness I'd been drowning in.

She filled the hours with stories about school, her cheerful chatter cutting through the heavy silence that had taken root in my mind. For a while, I let myself be carried by her energy, allowing her warmth to thaw the cold inside me. But as the day wore on and it was time for her to leave, the emptiness returned, more pronounced than before.

The rest of the evening passed in quiet motions—dinner, the rhythmic clink of utensils, and the hum of the dishwasher. Yet, beneath it all, a restlessness buzzed under my skin, refusing to be silenced. The spark of hope Sapphire had brought with her seemed to fade too quickly, leaving behind the familiar hollow ache that had settled in my chest.

Frida moved around the kitchen, clearing the table with practiced ease. Her presence was both comforting and suffocating—her care was relentless, and sometimes, I wished I could sink into it, let it wash over me, but other times, it felt like too much. Like I wasn't ready to be cared for again, to let anyone in that far.

She carried my plate to the sink, then returned to the table with a small glass of water and the pills I was supposed to take before bed. I could feel her eyes on me as she set them down, and for a moment, I stared at the little white tablets, knowing what I had to do but not wanting to.

"Here," Frida said softly, breaking the silence. "You're supposed to take these." Her voice was gentle, but I could hear the weight of something unspoken in her tone. "How are you feeling?"

The question landed between us like a stone, the quiet expectation in her words hanging heavy in the air. I shrugged, unsure if I even had an answer. I hadn't felt like myself for so long, I wasn't sure I could remember what it was supposed to feel like.

"I'm... okay," I murmured, taking the pills and swallowing them down with a sip of water. "Just tired, mostly."

Frida didn't press me, but I could tell she wasn't fully convinced. She moved to sit beside me, pulling her chair just a little closer, like she wanted to be there in case I decided to say something more. But I wasn't ready. Not yet.

"Ruby..." she began again, her voice softer now, almost hesitant. "Did you see their face? The one who... attacked you?"

I felt my body stiffen at the question, a wave of heat rising in my chest. The thought of the man, his face still a blur, sent a flicker of panic through me. I shook my head, my throat tightening, trying to keep the memory at bay.

"No," I said quickly. "I couldn't see it. It was too dark, and everything happened so fast."

The words felt inadequate, like I was telling a lie to protect myself. But it wasn't a lie, not really. I hadn't seen his face. I hadn't seen anything clearly enough to make sense of it.

Frida nodded, though I saw the flash of concern in her eyes. "Okay. I just... I need to know if you're ready to make a statement. The police will need one eventually. We can't let this go unreported."

I bit my lip, my fingers trembling slightly as I set the glass of water down. The thought of talking to the police felt overwhelming—too final, too real. I wasn't ready to take that step. Not yet.

"I'll do it," I said after a long moment, though the words felt heavy on my tongue. "When I'm ready."

Frida didn't argue, just reached out and squeezed my hand. The gesture was enough to make my chest tighten again. She didn't need me to be strong for her, not now. She just needed me to be here. And that, for some reason, was harder than I expected.

"Okay," she whispered, and I could see the weight she carried for me in her eyes. "We'll take it one step at a time."

📖📖

In the days after leaving the hospital, I fell into a rhythm that felt less like living and more like existing. Ember took the reins at my practice, shifting my clients to a trusted colleague. It was a relief not to carry that responsibility, yet a part of me ached at how easily my life seemed to move on without me. Damian, of course, didn't move on. Ember said he was waiting, his patience unwavering.

I remember her voice during the call, careful but firm as she conveyed his request to visit. I could hear her hesitance, perhaps sensing how fragile I felt. Damian's concern was genuine—I never doubted that—but the thought of seeing him felt overwhelming. What could I say to him when I couldn't even make sense of my own fractured emotions? I asked Ember to let him know I needed time, my voice steady even as guilt twisted inside me.

After the call, I sat in the quiet of the guest room, staring at the walls that had become my retreat. Isolation felt safer than facing the world, though I hated how it gave grief room to grow. It crept into every corner of my mind, wrapping around me when I least expected it.

The garden became my refuge, a place where the weight of memories didn't press as hard. I would spend hours out there, letting the scent of jasmine and the hum of bees pull me into the present. Some days, the sunlight felt warm on my skin, and I'd almost believe I was healing. Other days, Gabriel's smile would flicker in my mind, sharp and bright, and I'd feel the wound all over again.

Grief is strange that way—it doesn't follow a straight line. One moment, I'd feel steady enough to take a breath, and the next, I'd be drowning in a memory. Gabriel's screams, the fear in his eyes, the sheer helplessness of watching him suffer—it haunted me. It wasn't just his death but the way it had happened. Violent, senseless, a nightmare etched into my soul.

Eventually, though, the ache for normalcy began to pull at me. Not in a sweeping, dramatic way, but in small, persistent nudges. One afternoon, I realized my favorite book was still at the office. It wasn't just the book itself—it was what it represented. A part of my life before the world had turned upside down.