AMANDA
"Can you move?" I asked Luther, stopping myself from crying because f**k, this is hell.
He lay there, eyes wild and unfocused, body bound and bleeding. I could feel my heart pounding against my ribcage, a mix of rage and fear churning in my stomach. The sight of him like this—my Luther—was unbearable.
“Damn it, Luther, answer me!” I hissed, forcing my voice to steady, but it cracked anyway. I couldn’t show weakness now—not when he needed me. His eyes flickered to mine, that familiar fire struggling to break through the haze of pain and drugs clouding his gaze.
“I... I can’t…just go...why did you do this” he rasped, each word a struggle, his breath coming out in jagged bursts. The bindings dug into his wrists, blood trickling down, staining the floor beneath him. " You ...go.
