The silence inside the warehouse was thick, almost suffocating, broken only by the harsh rasp of Damian’s breathing and the distant hum of engines outside. The air carried the sharp tang of rust and old oil, a gritty industrial smell that clung to the tongue. Somewhere deep in the shadows, water dripped steadily, each drop echoing like a ticking clock counting down to hell.
The concrete beneath Elena’s knees was freezing, biting into her skin, but she barely felt it. All she felt was Damian. His blood. His weakening pulse beneath her fingertips.
She pressed her trembling hands against his chest wound, but the blood kept seeping through, warm and thick, like the life was draining right out of him. It coated her palms, smeared across her arms, staining her soul as much as her skin.
“Stay
