Krystal’s Point Of View
I didn’t scream.
The barrel of the pistol was inches from my face, cold metal catching the faint morning light. But something deeper than fear took over. A strange, bitter calm. One I had learned too well in the past months. The kind that comes when you realize screaming won’t help you, but thinking might.
The man with the salt-and-pepper beard—Papa, Lina’s so-called father—tilted his head slightly. The softness he once feigned was gone. His expression now was clinical, like a butcher assessing a cut of meat.
“You shouldn't have come out,” he muttered, pressing the gun closer. “Now you’ve complicated things.”
“I want Colt,” I said, voice steady, eyes never leaving his.
He chuckled. “You always did. He’s alive, for now. But he wasn’t supposed to fight back. Th
