EPISODE 2

        LUCIUS BLACKWOOD

A flicker of irritation crossed my mind as I looked down, a faint sense of disgust settling in. It felt unnecessary—like dirtying my hands over something insignificant, like killing a rat that wasn’t even worth the effort. A dry, humourless smirk touched my lips before fading away. These local gangsters… are fucking bastards. Loud, reckless, and completely devoid of discipline.

The alley stretched ahead in an unnatural silence. Not the quiet of an ordinary night, but something controlled—deliberate. Every stray sound had been erased with purpose. I knew exactly what that meant. Someone had arranged this. Nothing here was accidental.

The gunshot shattered that silence without warning, sharp and precise. My body reacted instantly, shifting just enough for the bullet to miss. It grazed past my skin—closes enough to feel, but not enough to matter. The sting registered for a brief second, then disappeared. Pain had never been something that slowed me down.

My instincts moved toward retaliation, ready to deal with the source of the attack, to end it before it could escalate into something more. But then something else pulled my attention away. At the far end of the adjoining alley, where darkness blurred the edges of everything, there was movement—faint, unsteady, out of place.

My focus shifted instantly, sharpening as my gaze locked into that direction. The presence didn’t belong to the situation unfolding around me. It carried a different weight—quieter, but far more significant. For a moment, everything else became irrelevant. The attack, the silence, the unseen shooter—none of it mattered anymore.

Because whatever was there wasn’t part of the plan. And in my world, anything that falls outside the plan demands attention. I remained still for a second longer, observing, letting the details settle. The uneven stance, the fragile movement, the way the figure struggled to stay upright—severely injured, but not dead. Not yet.

Someone had been careless. Fucking careless. And carelessness was something I never ignored.

Slowly, deliberately, I shifted my direction toward that alley, each step controlled and measured. The air grew heavier the closer I moved, carrying the aftermath of something violent—something unfinished. The figure became clearer with every step. Fragile. Fading. And completely out of place.

This wasn’t a coincidence. It never is. And whatever this was—it had just become my concern. It was a girl. At least, that was what it seemed from a distance. The way she moved, however, felt wrong—unsteady, as if her body was barely holding itself together. Each step looked forced, unstable, like she was pushing herself forward on nothing but will.

My attention was fixed on her as I watched her balance give out, her body hitting the ground without resistance. For a moment, she didn’t move. Then, against all logic, she tried to get up again. She managed it somehow, barely forcing herself upright—only to collapse once more, harder this time.

She didn’t move after that.

I moved without hesitation. The sting along my arm, where the bullet had grazed me, registered but didn’t matter. The alley wasn’t safe—I knew that. Still, I didn’t stop.

By the time I reached her, the damage was clear. Blood had dried at the corner of her lips. Her breathing was uneven, strained, each breath coming with effort.

Alive.

That alone changed everything. If the objective had been to kill her, it could have been done cleanly. Instead, this was excessive—uncontrolled, more force than necessary. Sloppy work.

The kind done by people who didn’t understand limits. No discipline. No precision. Just violence without control.

I remained still for a moment, observing. She didn’t fit—not the place, not the situation. Something about her felt out of place, like she didn’t belong in this kind of mess. Even in this condition—broken, unconscious—there was something about her that refused to be ignored.

My gaze lingered a second longer than necessary before I pushed the thought aside.

I bent down and lifted her. She felt light. Too light.

The SUV was already waiting. The door opened immediately. I placed her inside, got in, and started the engine. The car moved, leaving the alley behind.

A public hospital wasn’t an option. Too many questions. Too much attention.

I contacted my personal doctor. No unnecessary explanation—just clarity. There was no hesitation. He understood immediately and assured me everything would be ready before I arrived.

The call ended. For a moment, my attention shifted to my arm. The bullet graze was still there. Minor. Ignorable.

It could wait. She couldn’t.

Leaving her in that alley had never been an option.

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