Chosen Blood

Chapter 15 — Who did it?

The underground chamber smelled of cold iron and sweat, lit only by a single swaying bulb that cast long, restless shadows against the concrete walls.

In the center sat a man bound to a steel chair, wrists torn raw from struggling, lips split and crusted with blood. The air buzzed faintly — a low hum of fear.

Alejandro stood before him, sleeves rolled up, posture unnervingly composed — the kind of calm that came not from mercy, but from mastery. His silence pressed heavier than any threat.

Abi paced near the far wall like a trapped predator, her fists clenched until her knuckles blanched. Aya stood beside her, arms folded across her chest, every line of her body taut with suppressed rage. Neither wanted to be there, but Alejandro had insisted.

If you choose to follow Hima, he had told them, then you must learn what shadows walk beside her.

The captive coughed — a ragged, defeated sound.

“I don’t… know everything,” he rasped. “I was just hired.”

“By who?”

Alejandro’s voice was low, deliberate — almost gentle, but heavy with unspoken consequence.

The man swallowed hard. His lips trembled as he whispered the name.

“…Marco… Villarreal.”

The air shifted instantly.

Abi’s head snapped up. “What?” Her voice broke like glass. “That bastard? He’s the reason Hima’s lying in a hospital bed? He nearly killed her—for some twisted job?!”

She lunged forward, but a guard caught her shoulders. Abi’s voice rose, shaking with fury. “I’ll kill him myself!”

Aya’s anger was quieter — colder, honed like a blade. “Marco Villarreal… I know that name. He’s just a spoiled heir with too much power and no sense of consequence. He thinks he can throw bullets like tantrums and walk away?”

Her hands trembled — not from fear, but from the weight of a doctor who, for once, wanted to cause pain rather than prevent it.

The prisoner shrank back under their glare. “I-I don’t know why! They only gave me the name, that’s all! I swear!”

Abi’s foot shot out, kicking the chair leg so hard it clanged against the floor. “That’s not good enough!”

Aya’s voice sliced through the air. “Do you even realize what you did? You aimed for Aria — and she took that bullet instead. For what? For a name? For money you’ll never even live to spend?”

The man’s panic broke through whatever pride he had left. He’d faced beatings before — but this was different. The sisters’ rage wasn’t professional. It was personal, human, and it burned hotter than torture.

Alejandro finally raised a hand. Instantly, silence swallowed the room. He stepped closer, crouching slightly until his sharp eyes met the prisoner’s. His tone was soft, measured — and utterly terrifying.

“You’ve spoken the name,” he said. “That is all I required.”

He stood, brushing invisible dust from his cuff, and snapped his fingers once.

Two guards moved immediately, dragging the man from the chamber. His screams faded into the corridor, echoing against the metal walls until they vanished entirely.

Abi spun toward Alejandro, chest heaving. “That’s it? That’s all? You’re letting him off that easily?”

Alejandro’s gaze turned to her, cool and cutting. “Easily?” He stepped forward, his presence alone enough to quiet her fury. “He’s already outlived his usefulness. His silence will be permanent before sunrise.”

Aya’s jaw tightened. “And Marco? You’re calm — too calm. He almost took her from us. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”

For a moment, the mask slipped. A flicker of something dark, dangerous, and deeply personal passed through Alejandro’s eyes.

“It means everything,” he said quietly. “That is why I won’t waste anger on insects. Marco Villarreal will pay — not with a single death, but with the slow unraveling of everything he values. Wealth. Name. Power. I’ll strip him of all three, piece by piece, until he understands despair.”

Abi’s rage ebbed into grim silence. Aya looked away, disturbed — because as cold as his words were, there was comfort in them, too.

A promise.

Alejandro wasn’t merely avenging Hima. He was declaring war.

“Go,” he said finally, his voice a command that brooked no argument. “Stay with her. She’ll need you when she wakes. Leave Marco to me.”

The sisters exchanged a glance — fury and fear and trust tangled between them — then turned and left. Their footsteps echoed up the narrow hall, fading into the distance.

Alejandro remained alone in the chamber’s shadows. His expression didn’t change as he whispered the name again, tasting it like venom.

“Marco Villarreal…”

And in his calm, the storm had already begun.

That night, Manila was too quiet — the kind of stillness that warned of violence.

In his office at the Dela Cruz compound, Alejandro sat behind a mahogany desk. A cigar smoldered between his fingers, unlit, forgotten. Before him, a holographic dossier glowed faint blue across the surface:

Marco Villarreal, 28. Heir to the Villarreal Industrial Group. Educated abroad. Rumored history of obsession with public figures.

Red flags blinked across the file — illegal surveillance operations, bribery networks, black-market data acquisitions. Fan information leaks. All converging in one pattern.

Alejandro’s jaw tightened.

“Find every handler, every bank route, every shadow he’s ever paid to move,” he ordered.

The intelligence chief on the line bowed slightly. “Understood, Señor. We’ll trace his funding before dawn.”

When the call ended, Alejandro sat back in silence. For a long moment, he simply stared at the glowing ember at the tip of his unlit cigar. Then, in a rare whisper, he allowed something like warmth to surface.

“You did well, hija,” he murmured. “Rest now. Let me do the rest.”

Across the city, the hospital hummed softly in the quiet hours.

Inside a dim private room, Aria sat by Hima’s bedside, her once-bright concert dress dulled by sleeplessness and grief. The faint rhythm of the heart monitor was the only sound that kept her anchored.

She reached forward, adjusting Hima’s blanket, brushing a loose strand of hair from her forehead.

“You’re really something,” she whispered. “I should be the one protecting you, not the other way around.”

From the couch, Lila stirred, rubbing her eyes. “She’s always been like that,” she murmured, voice weak with exhaustion. “Even when she’s half-dead, she’ll still find a way to protect someone else.”

Aria smiled faintly. “Yeah… I can see that now.”

For a while, the room was quiet — until a faint, cracked sound came from the bed.

Aria froze. “Hima?”

Hima’s eyelids fluttered. The world swam into focus — harsh white lights, antiseptic air, and a familiar face hovering above her.

“…Aria?” she croaked, voice rough and dry.

Aria’s breath caught. “You’re awake,” she whispered, tears spilling freely. “You scared us half to death. You—you took a bullet for me. Do you even realize—”

Hima’s lips twitched into a weak smirk. “Didn’t have time to think,” she rasped. “You were in the line of fire. Instinct beat logic.”

Aria let out a trembling laugh. “You idiot.”

From the couch, Lila chuckled through her tears. “Welcome back, boss. You missed quite a storm.”

The door burst open — Abi and Aya rushing in, eyes wild with fatigue.

Abi froze at the sight of her awake. “Holy—Hima!” She threw her arms around her before Aya could stop her. “Don’t ever do that again, you absolute psycho!”

Aya followed, eyes scanning the monitors, her professional mask cracking. “Vitals are stable,” she murmured, then softer, “You scared me too, you know.”

Hima smiled faintly. “Didn’t mean to. But… looks like I made you all come together.”

Abi snorted. “Don’t get poetic just because you survived a gunshot.”

Laughter filled the room — tired, tearful, but real.

Aria sat back, watching them. She didn’t belong to their world yet, but the warmth between them pulled her in like gravity. When Hima’s gaze met hers again, there was something in it — quiet gratitude, and something else, deeper, unnamed.

Then exhaustion took over. Her eyes fluttered closed.

Aria squeezed her hand, whispering, “Rest. We’ll be here when you wake.”

As sleep claimed her, Hima murmured something barely audible. “Don’t… go far.”

Aria’s lips trembled into a small, certain smile.

“I won’t.”