A Tale of Blood

Chapter 4: The Blood Job

The world had changed for Russel Blake Valerio, and he could feel it in his bones. Ever since he found Ara's pendant near the blood-smeared hallway and received those chilling texts, something inside him had clicked—like a silent alarm that never turned off.

But it wasn’t just fear. It was focus.

And that focus sharpened when a black car pulled up in front of Leona’s bakery one cold afternoon.

Russel had just finished sweeping flour off the front steps. The vehicle, sleek and polished like a blade, had no business in a place like their street. Yet it waited there, unmoving. Silent.

The passenger window rolled down.

"Russel Valerio?"

A man in a dark suit, mid-forties, sunglasses covering half his face. His voice was clipped, efficient.

Russel hesitated. "Yeah?"

"Get in. Mr. Collins wants to speak with you."

Russel felt Leona watching through the bakery window. She shook her head slowly. Her face said: Are you sure?

He nodded to her once.

Then he got in.

The drive was silent.

The mansion was bigger than he remembered. More guards. More eyes. It felt less like a home and more like a stronghold.

Inside, the air was thick with scent—cedarwood and something faintly metallic. The butler escorted him to the study, where Ara’s father sat behind a large desk, flipping through documents.

"Russel," Mr. Collins said without looking up, "I assume you understand why you're here."

"Not exactly, sir."

"You protected my daughter. You brought her home. You kept quiet when others would've posted it online."

He finally looked at Russel, eyes sharp.

"That's loyalty. I reward loyalty."

Russel said nothing.

"I’m offering you a position. Temporary, but essential. You’ll be Ara’s personal escort. You will accompany her to school, events, even grocery runs. Your job is not just to keep her safe, but to watch her. Discreetly."

Russel frowned. "You mean spy on her?"

"I mean, protect her—even from herself."

The silence stretched.

"And the pay?"

"Five times more than your photography gigs. Weekly. Cash."

Russel hesitated for only a second.

"When do I start?"

Mr. Collins smiled faintly. "Now."

*****************************

He was given a uniform: all black, comfortable but tactical. There was no gun. Not yet. But he was handed an earpiece, a small flashlight, and a phone with only one number saved: Command.

His first assignment came that evening.

Ara was going to the local art exhibit at the cultural center. Russel was to follow. No interaction unless necessary. Observe and protect.

He saw her as soon as she entered the gallery.

Short black dress. Leather jacket. Her hair loosely curled, falling past her chin. She didn’t notice him. Not yet.

She moved between paintings, occasionally nodding at acquaintances. But her eyes—they were distant, like she wasn’t really there.

Russel followed silently, always a few steps behind.

Then, just as she stepped into the modern sculpture wing, the lights flickered.

Once.

Twice.

And then went out.

The silence was instant. Uneasy.

Russel’s hand went to his flashlight, but before he could use it, he heard something.

A footstep. Too close to Ara.

Then a gasp.

"Back away!" Russel barked, pushing through the dark.

His flashlight flicked on—just in time to see a masked figure reaching for her.

He launched himself forward, tackled the stranger to the ground.

The figure kicked up, fast, stronger than expected. Russel barely dodged the blade that came slashing toward his cheek.

He twisted the attacker’s wrist, heard a crack, and the knife dropped. The man hissed, punched Russel in the ribs, and broke free—vanishing into the dark hallway.

Security arrived a minute later.

The lights flickered back on.

Ara was shaking, but her eyes stayed on Russel.

"You were here," she whispered.

He nodded, catching his breath.

"Always."

********************

Back at the mansion, the mood was tense. Ara sat in the living room, wrapped in a blanket, sipping tea.

Russel stood near the wall, arms crossed, bruises blooming across his ribs.

"You knew he was coming, didn’t you?" she asked quietly.

"No. But I was told to watch you."

She stared at him. "You’re working for my father now."

He nodded.

"So you’re just another one of his eyes."

He said nothing.

She looked away. "I liked you better when you were just a quiet guy with a camera."

That stung.

"And I liked you better when you smiled without faking it."

Her eyes snapped back to his.

They stayed like that—tense, silent—until she stood.

"I’m going to my room. If you’re following me, stay out of my way."

He didn’t follow. Not this time.

But as she walked away, he whispered, "You don’t have to be alone in this."

She paused. For just a second.

Then kept walking.

******************

That night, Russel lay on the small guest bed he was given in the servant’s wing.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown: Good job today, hero. But next time, try not to miss the second guy.

He sat up, heart pounding.

Second guy?

He rushed out of the room, sprinted down the hallway, past the guards.

Ara’s door was slightly open.

Inside—silence.

Too much silence.

He pushed the door.

Ara was sitting on the edge of her bed, pale.

There was blood dripping from her hand.

On the wall behind her, smeared in red:

STOP DIGGING. OR NEXT TIME, SHE DIES.

Russel ran to her, wrapped her hand with a towel.

"Did you see who did this?"

She didn’t speak.

Just looked at him.

"You stayed, Russel," she whispered. "Even when I told you to go."

He swallowed. "I told you. Always."

**********************

Russel stood in the hallway outside Ara’s room, his knuckles pale from gripping his phone. The message still flashed on the screen:

“Good job today, hero. But next time, try not to miss the second guy.”

He had only caught one attacker at the exhibit. One masked figure. But now he knew—someone else had slipped past him. Slipped into her space, left a message in blood. This wasn’t just a warning. It was a declaration of war.

The towel around Ara’s hand was soaked red. He could still see the trembling in her fingers, even though she tried to look calm.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t cry.

She stared at the words on her wall like they were familiar.

“Did he hurt you anywhere else?” Russel asked.

She shook her head. “No. Just my hand. He grabbed it and pressed a blade into my palm. Slowly. Like... he wanted me to watch it bleed.”

Russel clenched his fists. “I won’t let it happen again.”

Ara’s voice was flat. “Don’t make promises you can’t keep.”

But he could hear it beneath her words—the fear. The panic she tried to bury.

She wasn’t used to needing help. And that made her vulnerable.

By midnight, the house was locked down.

The security team doubled. Mr. Collins returned from a business trip the moment he was informed, demanding updates. The hallway cameras showed nothing. Someone had cut the feed exactly two minutes before the blood message was written.

Professional.

Silent.

A ghost.

Russel sat on the stone steps outside the main house, the pendant still in his pocket. Ara’s pendant.

He turned it over and over, trying to piece together the bigger picture. Someone wanted her gone. Not just to scare her—but to destroy her. The question that haunted him now was: why?

He called the Command line on his issued phone.

"Collins residence, security command."

"This is Russel Valerio. I want records—every person who has entered this house in the past two weeks. Staff. Guests. Maintenance. Delivery. Everyone."

The voice on the other end was hesitant. "That’s above your clearance, sir."

"Then raise it. Because someone walked into that girl’s room and left a message in her blood. And if you don’t help, the next time she might not wake up."

A pause. Then:

"We’ll send the files. Password locked. Check your inbox."

The next morning, Russel didn’t go to school.

He was up early, cross-referencing names, profiles, schedules. One staff member stood out. A gardener named Luis T., who had clocked in and out normally—except for one day where his timesheet had a twenty-five-minute gap unaccounted for.

That gap? The night of the blood message.

Russel checked the attached photo.

It wasn’t Luis.

It was someone else using Luis’s badge.

A fake. A plant.

He rushed downstairs.

"Mr. Collins!"

He found him in the gun room, loading a small pistol.

"We had a breach," Russel said. “It wasn’t the real gardener. Someone stole his ID. They walked right in."

Mr. Collins nodded slowly, jaw clenched. "And you just discovered this now?"

"Yes."

"Then you’re already late."

Russel didn’t flinch. "Give me access. Let me track him."

"You want to play hunter?"

"No. I want to finish what I started."

Mr. Collins studied him for a moment, then opened a drawer and handed him a different phone. One with a tracker app already open.

"Follow it. Bring him in alive. If he talks, we might finally know who’s behind this."

The location pinged in a neighboring town. A warehouse near the docks.

Russel didn’t wait. He took a bike, packed light, and rode through backroads to avoid being followed.

As the sun dipped into the horizon, he found the warehouse. Empty. Quiet. Too quiet.

He crept in through a broken window.

Inside, crates lined the walls. He heard footsteps.

He moved slowly, keeping his breathing quiet.

Then—he saw him.

A man in a black hoodie, crouched over a laptop.

Russel stepped forward. "Luis."

The man froze.

Then ran.

Russel chased him between the crates, across rusted ladders and broken metal. They fought. It was messy. Desperate. The man swung a crowbar. Russel ducked, punched him hard in the gut.

The man collapsed. Russel pinned him, pressed a boot to his chest.

"Who sent you?"

The man coughed, spat blood. "You’re too late."

"Who sent you?!"

He smirked. "Check the girl’s room."

Russel felt dread clawing into him.

"What did you do?"

"Tick. Tick."

The man passed out.

Russel called Command. "Emergency evac for suspect. He’s alive. I’m heading back now."

Then he sprinted for the bike.

By the time he reached the Collins estate, everything was chaos.

An ambulance.

Lights flashing.

People shouting.

Russel pushed through the crowd. "Ara! Where is she?!"

One of the maids pointed toward the medical wing.

He ran.

Inside, Ara lay on a hospital bed, pale. Oxygen mask. Her arm wrapped tightly. Her eyes opened as he entered.

She whispered, "You came back."

"Always."

Tears welled in her eyes.

"There was another message. They said... they said they’re not done."

Russel sat beside her, gripped her hand. "Then we’re not done either."

He leaned close, voice low. "You’re not alone anymore, Ara. Not ever."

And for the first time since the attacks began, she let herself believe it.