The receiver felt cold and heavy against my ear. My eyes, weary from tracking the movement of others, were fixed on the small, almost insignificant forest patch visible through the window. Every second stretched like an eternity, each tick of the clock hammering against my nerves.
"Lady Serena is currently being held in a small wooden house in Lutna Forest, east of 71st Street in Hellin Town," I relayed, my voice low, precise, a deliberate counterpoint to the anxiety coiling in my stomach. I had to remain the calm center, the anchor. "If you follow the forest path, there are three old, decrepit homes. She's in the last one... And there are four men in there standing guard."
A low sound came from the other end. I knew what he was thinking—what he was already planning. He was close, yes, but not close enough. I was blocked, and I could do nothing but hope.
"I can't enter the forest myself, since there's a checkpoint at its entrance," I admitted, the sting of helplessness pressing against my chest. A mirror-like circular device on my desk reflected the dark canopy back at me—the objective, so near yet impossibly distant. I considered other routes, each slower, each riskier, each one stealing precious seconds.
I could head there from the opposite side, cut through the outskirts… but it would take too long. Time we didn't have. Every passing moment Serena remained in their custody was a risk I couldn't bear.
"A checkpoint?" Sir Eiser's voice was crisp, cutting through my thoughts like a blade.
"Right, of course. Frederick is..." I didn't need to finish the thought. Frederick was already in motion, tearing through the town in his car, closing the distance with relentless speed.
"The checkpoint won't be an issue for you, Sir Eiser," I continued, urgency sharpening my words. His reputation preceded him; a mere boundary would not halt him. "So if you come right away…"
I pulled the phone slightly away, slamming my free hand onto the desk in a CLENCH, the wood groaning under the force.
"I called you because I believe you'll be able to get to her quicker than I can."
A sharp, determined VROOM filled the brief silence—the roaring engine of a car tearing into the night.
That's him.
The darkness outside my window blurred as panels of movement flashed in my mind: the glint of an eye, the purposeful grip on a steering wheel. This was Frederick. He was in the driver's seat, suit immaculate, expression set like steel. His hands gripped the wheel tightly. He didn't speak; he didn't need to. He was a silent force, and the world seemed to part for him.
From a bird's-eye view, the city raced past him—a blur of streetlights, shadows, and asphalt giving way to the growing darkness of the outskirts. Only one beacon remained: the small, lonely house in Lutna Forest, the faint glow of firelight spilling from its windows, promising both danger and salvation.
---
🏎️ Frederick's Race Against Time (Narrated by Eiser)
The sound of his engine, deep and guttural, was all the confirmation I needed. My hand, which had clenched so tightly it threatened to bruise, relaxed slightly, though my chest remained knotted with tension. I was still pinned by the checkpoint—but Frederick was moving.
"This is Frederick."
I had known it would be him, but to hear that single, understated confirmation now—detached, professional, utterly serious—cut through the anxiety. Frederick, my most trusted, most complicated ally, was going in.
He drove a pre-war classic, a machine of steel and raw power, but his grip on the wheel was precise, controlled. His mind worked like clockwork, coldly calculating each maneuver, each potential obstacle. His eyes, winter-sky gray, remained locked ahead. The city lights receded in a relentless tide as he pressed into the night, toward the forest that awaited like a dark, breathing creature.
I imagined the internal commands flowing through him as surely as blood through veins: Lutna Forest, east of 71st Street. Three decrepit homes. The last one. Four guards.
He knew the checkpoint was insurmountable for me. He also knew he was the only one who could navigate this terrain—the dense, shadowed outskirts of Hellin Town—with the necessary balance of speed, stealth, and inevitable violence.
"I called you because I believe you'll be able to get to her quicker than I can," I had said. Truth mingled with burden, but he bore it without hesitation.
The car, a silent beast beneath him, carved through the darkness. In the rearview mirror, the trees drew closer—thick, shadowed walls that threatened to swallow the path whole. He wasn't thinking of detours or checkpoints. He was focused on the forest, the last house, the four guards.
His face, lit by the low dashboard glow, was a mask of absolute intensity. He wasn't simply driving; he was converging, a weapon aimed and fired with precision. And in the distance, the faint, solitary glow of the wooden house confirmed it: the rescue was underway.
---
My head was a throbbing knot of pain, each pulse a drumbeat announcing the slow, torturous passage of time. Light and shadow danced unevenly across the wooden walls, but I hardly noticed. My headache was worsening, a relentless hammer behind my eyes, and a wave of dizziness washed over me every time I moved. Today was the third day. The third day of captivity, of endless waiting, of being trapped in a body too tired to fight yet too alert to escape the fear gnawing at me.
Victor could return at any moment. Or perhaps he had already gone, leaving me to stew in uncertainty. Every creak of the floorboards, every whisper of wind against the dilapidated walls, made my heart leap.
I rolled onto my side on the rough, splintered mattress. The thin bandage over my arm felt pitifully inadequate, a meager shield against the lingering ache of bruises and cuts. My body was exhausted, but my mind refused to quiet. Anxiety clawed at me, mingling with a strange, unwelcome awareness that kept twisting in my chest.
Eiser… Is he on his way? Or is he still searching?
I let out a shaky sigh, flopping onto my back once more, staring at the dim ceiling above me. The name echoed in my head, repeated over and over, becoming my lifeline. It was absurd—almost laughable—that I clung to it like a talisman, the fragile anchor that steadied me against the rising tide of despair.
To think I was enduring this, mentally repeating the name I had once despised with every fiber of my being… it was ironic, almost bitter.
I forced myself to remember the moment he had commanded me to speak it aloud: "Call me by my name." The memory of his voice was sharp and magnetic, low and compelling, embedding itself in my mind like a command I could not ignore.
How strange it felt, that the reason I hadn't dared utter his name before was not fear alone, but a cautious wariness, a defensive instinct that had always lingered in the shadowed corners of my thoughts. A necessary barrier.
My mind drifted to the last image I had of him—the contours of his chiseled face, the unyielding, penetrating gaze that seemed to strip away pretense, the way the dark, rich fabric of his robe contrasted against the bare skin of his chest. The image was vivid, painfully vivid, seared into my memory as if it refused to fade.
I realized then that if I were ever to speak his name to his face, it would only be once the last traces of doubt were gone, when suspicion, when fear, when all remnants of resistance had been extinguished.
And here I was—battered, weak, a fragile shadow of myself—trapped in a decrepit shack somewhere in the dense forest, clinging to the sound of his name in my mind as if it were sacred, as if repeating it could summon him.
I drew in a sharp breath, trying desperately to gather the frayed threads of my consciousness, to steady the tremor of my resolve.
I am waiting. Eagerly. Achingly. For the moment I will see him again—the man whose presence once terrified me, the man whose name now pulses through my mind with a strange, insistent warmth. The irony of it almost made me laugh, though the sound would have been closer to a sob.
The pain in my body was a dull roar, but my resolve hardened with each passing minute. Come, Eiser. Come for me.
My mind was trapped in the same twisted, relentless loop. I couldn't stop it, no matter how I willed myself to. Thoughts collided and overlapped, each one louder than the last, gnawing at my reason.
To think I'm enduring this… by mentally repeating the name I once loathed with every fiber of my being… and yet, now, I eagerly await the moment I'll see the face of the man who I once feared would hurt me… it makes no sense whatsoever.
I must be losing my mind… or… is this what I feel for Eiser really?
I lifted a trembling hand from beneath my cheek and pressed it to my forehead, searching for some semblance of logic among the chaos of my emotions.
I had always believed the reason I couldn't speak his name aloud was a cautious wariness that lingered in some shadowed corner of my mind. I thought that if I ever did, it would only be when every trace of doubt had been erased, when suspicion, fear, and hesitation were gone.
But now, lying here—trapped, weak, battered—those justifications feel like a lie I told myself to preserve pride, a fragile shield I no longer need. After everything I've endured, after the emotional upheaval of that day, I've become… strange.
The ceiling above me was dark, silent except for the faint light sneaking through the crack beneath the door. I remembered a flash of myself from that day—the day my world fractured. Clean, dripping wet, clad in a shimmering white gown, eyes wide with shock and confusion, staring at him… at Eiser. That day had changed everything. It had shifted the center of my world, and the gravity of my feelings had altered forever.
I wasn't afraid of him anymore. The fear had curdled into something different—something desperate, consuming, a need that burned through every nerve. The realization was frightening in its intensity, yet comforting in its clarity.
The Sound of Hope
Suddenly, the oppressive loop of thoughts shattered.
A heavy, deliberate rhythm began below. STOMP. STOMP.
My heart leaped violently, thumping against my ribs, threatening to escape. Oh… someone was coming up the stairs.
The rhythm was too deliberate, too commanding, to be the captors. They always shuffled, complaining, their boots scraping carelessly along the wooden steps. No, this was different. This was purposeful. Authoritative.
I forced myself to act. With a sudden surge of adrenaline, I pushed myself up from the rough mattress, scrambling into a crouch—SPRING—despite the dizzying spin of the room that made my vision wobble. I ignored the throbbing pain in my head, focused only on the door, only on the approaching presence.
The heavy footsteps stopped right outside. My breath caught, held prisoner in my chest. Every muscle was coiled tight, ready to react. If it was Victor… I would fight. If it was one of the guards… I would scream.
But if it was him… if it was Frederick… a proxy of Eiser…
I froze, suspended in a moment of terrifying, dizzying hope, waiting for the door to burst open, for the truth to reveal itself in the shape of someone I had longed to see, someone I had once feared, yet now… needed.
The heavy, rhythmic STOMP… STOMP… outside the door sliced through my dizzy haze, replacing it with a sudden, electrifying jolt of clarity. This wasn't the slow, lazy tread of the guard who brought my pitiful meals. No, this was deliberate, purposeful—the measured steps of a man with intent.
I scrambled upright, ignoring the way my head spun—WOBBLE—forcing every ounce of strength I had into gripping the thick wooden door, ready to act, ready to flee, ready for him.
Then came voices, sharp and frantic, erupting from the main room where the guards usually lounged.
"HEY! I think Sir Victor's at the entrance!" one shouted, his tone a mixture of shock and panic, the usual boredom replaced entirely by fear.
Victor. The man who had orchestrated my capture. The man who had demanded my signature on that blasted document, the one they'd been shoving into my face for three long, agonizing days.
A second guard, a nervous man with long hair plastered to his sweaty face, bolted toward me, thrusting the paper and pen again. His eyes were wide, almost unhinged, a reflection of the new terror that had overtaken the house.
"HAA… DAMN IT ALL! Do you not realize the situation you're in? If you don't sign this, you're seriously done for!" He stammered, voice shaking. "You still haven't signed that thing?!"
I recoiled instinctively, my pulse hammering in sync with the STOMP still resonating through the floorboards. My fingers tightened around nothing as he lunged at me.
"HURRY UP! HURRY UP AND SIGN IT! WRITE SOMETHING DOWN, ANYTHING! COME ON!" He lunged, trying to shove the pen into my numb fingers, desperation radiating off him like heat.
"THIS ISN'T AN EMPTY THREAT! BOTH YOU AND I ARE GOING TO DIE UNLESS YOU SIGN IT!" he shrieked, his earlier composure vanished. The bored, lazy guard had been replaced by a pathetic, quivering wreck.
I wrenched my arm away, the ache in my muscles irrelevant. "What do you think you're doing? LET GO OF ME! You don't want to die here, do you?!" The words came before thought, instinctive, primal, sharpened by fear and clarity.
For a moment, time seemed to slow. I was dizzy, yes, the world tilting, the room spinning—but suddenly lucid. My mind sharpened. Is what I feel for Eiser really…? Even as I questioned myself, his presence—or the promise of it—anchored me. This man's panic was my ally, proof that salvation wasn't just coming; it was imminent. Victor's entrance had changed the game.
The guard pressed closer, eyes wide with terror. "DON'T COME ANY CLOSE—"
Then it happened. A sound so sudden, so absolute, that it swallowed the guard's panic, the house, and the entire forest into a single catastrophic moment:
BANG!
The door—the thick, oppressive barrier that had imprisoned me for three agonizing days—did not simply open. It exploded inward. The force ripped the hinges from the frame, sending splinters and dust flying across the dimly lit room.
A gust of cold night air rushed in, bringing with it the scent of damp earth and raw, undeniable power. My hair whipped across my face. My pulse raced.
And there he was—framed in the smoking, splintered doorway. Frederick.
His suit remained immaculate, untouched by the destruction around him. His expression betrayed nothing—calm, composed, unshakable—but his presence hit like a thunderclap that silenced the panic in the room.
The man holding me—the one desperate for my signature—froze completely. He looked small, ridiculous, the terror in his eyes now painfully obvious. He had no idea how completely outmatched he was.
Frederick's eyes—cool, light blue, the same I had glimpsed in my fleeting memory—locked onto me with precision, assessing my state in an instant. He didn't glance at the guard, didn't glance anywhere else. He didn't need to. His gaze, sharp and unerring, had already found its objective.
. door had shocked me into stillness, but the eruption of chaos that followed felt almost like confirmation—confirmation that the nightmare was real, and yet salvation was closer than ever. The terror etched on the guard's face, the desperate, frantic pleas, all coalesced into a single, horrifying truth: the balance of power in the house had shifted, and I was caught in its epicenter.
Another BANG ripped through the air, followed by a guttural, drawn-out AAARGH!
"S-Sir Victor?" the guard nearest me stammered, eyes wide, disbelief melting into pure terror. "I-I'm sorry. She hasn't signed—"
"BLAST IT… HE'S BACK!" another voice screamed from the main room, quickly silenced by a sickening thud. "SEE?! HE'S KILLING EVERYONE OUT THERE!"
Victor must be back. The realization hit me like a physical blow, sending a JOLT through my dizzy frame. Cold dread settled in my stomach, twisting like iron—but almost immediately, a sharp, invigorating surge of defiance coursed through me. If Victor had returned, then Eiser couldn't be far behind.
The guard beside me—the one who'd been badgering me relentlessly—was now utterly frantic. His grip tightened on my wrist, fingers biting into the raw, bruised skin. CLENCH. The pain shot through me, sharp and searing.
"F*** IT! GIVE ME YOUR HAND!" he shrieked, voice cracking with desperation. "PUT SOMETHING DOWN ON THAT BLASTED PIECE OF PAPER!"
I flailed, my arm jerking uselessly in his iron grasp. FLAIL. "LET GO OF ME!" My voice trembled, thin, yet carried a fierce, unyielding strength I didn't know I had. "I SAID LET GO!"
He ignored me entirely, eyes darting between my face and the cacophony of destruction unfolding in the main room. There were new sounds now—the FWISH of something sharp slicing the air, the grunt of a man, another sickening thud. His composure, already tenuous, was unraveling.
"GRAB THE PEN IN YOUR HAND, AT LEAST!!!" he screamed, trying to force my fingers onto the paper. His feet shuffled, an anxious STAGGER, as he struggled to maintain control while simultaneously watching the growing horror outside.
Then, just as his fingers clenched around the pen, a new sound shattered the room—far closer, far more decisive than any before.
BANG.
It wasn't distant. It was here.
The guard's grip on my wrist went slack instantly. His eyes, wide with terror mere seconds ago, now stared vacantly, unseeing. A crimson spray blossomed on the wall behind him. His body toppled slowly, heavily, like a felled tree, landing with a sickening thud.
His large, clunky shoe skidded across the worn floorboards beside my bare feet, leaving a few drops of blood trailing behind.
The silence that followed was suffocating, heavy, punctuated only by my ragged breathing and the distant sounds of combat still raging in the main room. I stared at the fallen man, then at the gaping, splintered doorway—my gaze fixed, heart hammering.
A g-gunshot?!
Eiser stood there, a dark, imposing silhouette against the faint light from the other room. The pistol in his hand still smoked faintly at the barrel, the weapon steady in his grip. His eyes, cold and expressionless, locked onto me. He hadn't glanced at the man he'd just dispatched. His focus was singular, unwavering.
I felt a surge of dizziness, but this time it wasn't from weakness. It was from the sheer, overwhelming reality of it all. He was here. I was safe.
The cold dread coiled in my chest, sharp and heavy, making every breath catch in my throat. "A G-GUNSHOT?!" I gasped, jolting back instinctively. The acrid, metallic tang of gunpowder seemed to hang in the air, biting at my nose and throat even before my brain fully registered the sound.
Then came the shouts, erupting all around me, drowning out the frantic, pounding rhythm of my own heartbeat. A heavy, splintering BANG echoed from beyond the door, followed immediately by a strangled, desperate "AHHHH!" I stumbled back, disoriented, as a shaky voice cried, "S-SIR VICTOR? I'M SORRY. SHE STILL HASN'T SIGNED—" The rest was swallowed by another deafening BANG.
My blood ran ice-cold. The man looming over me—his face twisted with panic—froze mid-motion. His eyes, wide and frantic, mirrored my own terror, but they held a different, darker desperation: a self-preserving fear that made his every movement frantic and unpredictable.
"VICTOR MUST BE BACK!" someone screamed from the hall, and the panic became a chorus, a relentless, echoing wave.
The man in front of me reacted immediately, his hands snatching at my arms with brutal urgency. His face contorted with rage and terror. "F IT! GIVE ME YOUR HAND!*" he snarled, trying to wrestle my wrist toward the paper lying on the floor. "PUT SOMETHING DOWN ON THAT BLASTED PIECE OF PAPER!"
I cried out, my head throbbing violently, vision spinning in a haze of pain and panic. "OUCH… IT HURTS SO MUCH!" His grip tightened like iron around my wrist, the pressure punishing, relentless. My jaw clenched until it ached, and my teeth ground together. CLENCH.
A surge of dark, rising fear pulsed through me. He's going to break it, I thought frantically. "FEELS LIKE HE'S GOING TO BREAK MY WRIST…" I thrashed wildly, kicking out, my body twisting against his iron hold. "LET GO OF ME! FLAIL!"
His grip only strengthened. "I SAID LET GO!" I screamed, raw and desperate, but his focus had shifted entirely to the chaos beyond the room.
"BLAST IT… HE'S BACK!" he hissed, pulling me tighter as if sheer force could control both me and the unseen threat outside. Then came another sound—a sickening Fwish, sharp and fast, slicing the air—followed by a heavy thud that made the floor tremble beneath me. "SEE?! HE'S KILLING EVERYONE OUT THERE!"
In a last, frantic attempt, he practically threw the pen at my hand. "GRAB THE PEN IN YOUR HAND, AT LEAST!!!"
The effort sent me stumbling backward. STAGGER. My legs wobbled beneath me, weak and trembling; my shoes scuffed against the worn boards as I fought to stay upright.
Then came another, heavier BANG, shaking the door violently as shards of splintered wood flew through the air. My eyes dropped to the floor, where pieces of shattered boot—or perhaps fragments of the door itself—lay scattered among dark, ominous splatters that hinted at the violence overtaking the house.
He had to be stopped. I didn't know who this "Victor" was, but I knew the man holding me was dangerous.
My hand, still throbbing from his punishing grip, hovered close to the pen lying on the floor, the thin shaft a fragile lifeline amid the chaos.
Absolutely! Here's a fully expanded version of your passage, staying completely in Serena's first-person perspective, heightening the tension, horror, and psychological impact, without continuing past the specified endpoint:
The man holding me stiffened completely, his body frozen as if a switch had been thrown. His eyes, wide and frantic moments ago, were now riveted on something—or someone—behind me. The grip he had clamped around my wrist slackened slightly, a tremor running through his arm as pure, unadulterated shock stole his attention.
"!"
I followed his gaze, slowly turning my head, every motion weighted with dread. My chest tightened, my breath shallow, but I forced myself to look.
The door to the room had been blown inward, splintered wood jutting at odd angles, jagged and smoking. And there, standing in the doorway, framed by the chaos and the scattered, dark stains of blood in the hallway, was a man.
He was terrifying, a nightmare made flesh, rendered in crisp, impeccably tailored suit fabric that somehow made the blood spatters even more horrifying. His hair was dark, with a subtle reddish hue under the harsh, eerie glow. His eyes… icy blue, chillingly cold, entirely devoid of warmth, hesitation, or mercy. Every movement exuded a clinical precision that set my nerves on fire.
Flecks of crimson flecked his dark suit and hands. In his grasp, a black automatic pistol still smoked, the slide snapping with a faint, menacing "FSSHHH" as it chambered the next round.
The man clutching my wrist stumbled backward, disbelief plastered across his features. His panic had shifted to a completely new emotion: pure, abject terror.
"Uh… S-Sir Victor? NO, THAT'S NOT…" His words faltered, caught in his throat as his eyes darted frantically between me and the newcomer. "WAIT, WHO ARE—?"
The man in the doorway leveled the gun with ruthless, surgical precision. His face was a mask of cold fury, unreadable, and his gaze locked onto my captor, completely ignoring me.
A chilling thought pierced through the haze of my fear: THAT ISN'T VICTOR.
This was someone else. Someone far worse. Someone utterly unstoppable.
The brief, silent moment shattered with a deafening, bone-rattling BANG.
The muzzle of the gun spat fire, a white-hot flare of violence. A split second later, the world around me erupted in crimson. My captor's head snapped backward violently, his body convulsing as the blood sprayed across his dark clothes and even splattered near my face.
"AAARGH!" His scream tore through the room, cut abruptly short as his body pitched heavily to the side before collapsing onto the floor with a sickening thud.
I threw my hands over my head, a raw, piercing "AHHH!" tearing from my throat. The world dissolved into chaos—the sight of blood, the ringing of gunfire, and the sheer shock of the violence unleashed just inches from my face. My bandaged, bloodied hands pressed against my ears, eyes squeezed shut, trying desperately to block out the horror.
BANG. Another shot rang out, sharp, unnecessary, a final punctuation in the deadly symphony.
When I finally lowered my hands, my wrist still throbbing from the earlier assault, I stared in frozen disbelief at the man in the doorway. He hadn't moved. Not a muscle. His gun remained raised, the barrel still faintly smoking, his expression unreadable, his pale, icy eyes catching the light from the flickering emergency glow.
A traitorous part of my mind whispered that he had saved me. But at what cost?
Slowly, deliberately, he lowered the weapon. The metallic sound of the pistol moving echoed in the sudden, ringing silence of the room. He cast a single glance at the crumpled, lifeless form of my captor, then snapped his cold, blue eyes toward me.
"THAT'S…"
I couldn't finish the thought. Couldn't form the words in my terrified, overwhelmed mind. I was safe from the man who had demanded the paper, but now I was alone with the figure who had executed him. His presence was magnetic, deadly, utterly terrifying, and completely consuming.
Absolutely! Here's a full expansion of your passage, keeping it in Serena's first-person perspective, heightening her terror, disorientation, and the psychological weight of Eiser's presence, stopping exactly at the moment she acknowledges her total vulnerability:
My hands stayed clamped over my ears, even as the ringing silence finally settled into a brittle, hollow quiet. I was hunched over, trembling, smeared with the sticky, coppery warmth of the man's blood. Every breath felt like a rasping gasp, each inhale and exhale punctuated by the memory of the gunshot and the violent impact it had wrought.
"Ah… THE SOUND OF GUNFIRE… IT'S TERRIFYING!" I whispered, my voice cracking, hoarse from panic. The shock pressed down on me like a physical weight, fracturing my sense of reality. Every detail of the room—the splintered door, the blood-spattered floor, the fallen captor—revolved in a dizzying blur of red and shadow.
Eiser?"
The man who had saved me—the one with the piercing blue eyes—stepped closer, his footfalls unnervingly silent, almost predatory, on the slick floor. The air seemed to condense around him, each movement casting a dark, looming shadow that replaced the harsh red glow of the gun's muzzle flash.
I looked up, eyes wide, pleading. The trauma of the struggle and the execution burned fresh in my mind, warping the figure before me into a flickering, glitching phantom. The red haze of blood and fear distorted his image, making his cold, vacant expression and the way he held the gun all the more horrifying.
The panic inside me swelled, confusing the terror he inspired with the memory of the man who had tried to force me to sign that cursed paper. I shook my head violently, crawling backward on my hands and knees, my chest heaving.
"NO." I choked, tears pricking at the corners of my eyes. "NO…" My voice rose into desperate, broken pleas. "DON'T DO IT!"
He was so close now that the weight of his presence pressed on me, a suffocating force. My mind spun, replaying the memory of the previous struggle—the crushing grip on my wrist, the pain, the fear—and I couldn't bear to confront it again.
"NO… DON'T DO WHAT HE DID!" I begged, pressing myself further back until my spine met the cold wall. "PLEASE, NOT YOU."
My vision swam, the room tilting as a sickening realization clawed through me. He was almost… handsome. In a terrifying, impossible way. His bloodied suit, his cold, sculpted features, his ruthless composure—it all mirrored the same aura of brutal, unstoppable force I had just witnessed. Two different men, yet both symbols of a merciless power I could not resist or escape.
I buried my face back into my hands, rocking slightly, trying to make the terror stop. My own ragged breathing was the only sound I could cling to. "DON'T…" I whispered, almost incoherently. Then louder, "STOP…"
The words were wrung from a place of pure misery. "STOP IT!" I screamed, a raw, primal "AAARGH!" tearing itself from my throat.
He didn't flinch. Didn't speak. His gaze remained fixed on me, predatory and silent, as if measuring the exact degree of terror he could elicit. He watched me descend into panic, and the cold, clinical assessment in his eyes was absolute.
Finally, he moved—but not to comfort, not to speak, not to intervene. He raised the gun again, deliberate, slow, commanding.
BANG.
The sound was deafening, right beside me, and my stomach lurched—but no pain came. The bullet struck the wall inches from my head, a perfect demonstration of precision, control, and dominance. He wasn't threatening me. He was ordering me. Demanding silence, demanding obedience, demanding recognition of his power.
I lifted my head slowly, heart hammering in my chest, eyes meeting his cold, perfectly sculpted profile. The blue eyes, now narrowed, were speckled with blood, catching the light of the flickering emergency glow.
I was utterly, completely at the mercy of this new, terrifying man.
I flinched back against the wall, my body pressed into the cold, splintered wood, utterly terrified. My knees trembled, my chest heaving, but I didn't scream again. The sheer, contained violence radiating from him had silenced me completely. My mind raced, paralyzed, each heartbeat pounding like a drum in my skull. The acrid smoke from the last warning shot still lingered, curling in the dim light and making the room feel smaller, suffocating.
Then, he moved again.
He didn't speak. Not a word. He turned slowly, fluidly, his dark suit a stark, immaculate contrast to the chaos and gore around him. Every motion was deliberate, predatory, and terrifyingly calm. And then, in one seamless, horrifying gesture, he raised the gun again.
"EISER!!!"
The name tore from the doorway, a raw, desperate scream from someone already losing control. My eyes widened as the sound echoed off the walls, but Eiser didn't flinch, didn't glance in the direction of the shout. His focus remained locked on the first captor—the one still barely alive, trying to lift himself, rasping weak **"PANT"**s of pain, trembling, helpless.
BANG.
The shot erupted, deafening, blinding, the sound vibrating through my bones. The first captor jerked violently, a wet, choking gasp escaping his lips, and then another BANG cracked sharply, immediately following. I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think. My vision blurred as I saw the body convulse one final time, and then… silence.
Absolute, suffocating silence, broken only by the ragged, uneven rhythm of my own breathing.
I pressed my bandaged hand over my mouth, muffling the sobs that threatened to tear free. The finality of the violence cracked the last of my composure. Tears streamed down my cheeks, mixing with sweat, mixing with the dark flecks of blood that had splattered across me. "SOB."
"STOP…" I whispered, trembling. The word was barely audible, a fragile plea. "PLEASE STOP IT…"
The killing had ended, but the terror remained, rooted deep in my mind. It lived in the unblinking, icy blue eyes of Eiser, in the metallic tang of blood in the air, in the shivering of my own body pressed against the wall.
Finally, Eiser lowered his gun, letting his arm fall loosely to his side. He didn't glance at the bodies, didn't give any sign of emotion. He simply stood there, an immense figure of lethal precision, drenched in blood, his gaze finding mine once more.
I pressed my face into my hands, trying to shut out the sight, trying to block out the memory of every merciless shot, every splatter of crimson. My sobs were loud in the silence. "DON'T…" I cried, the single word trembling in the air, a desperate plea for sanity, for the nightmare to end.
The images replayed endlessly behind my closed eyelids: the sudden, brutal entry, the merciless shooting, the absolute disregard for human life. He had saved me… but the method had shattered me in a way I couldn't yet articulate.
I curled into myself, my voice breaking as the truth tumbled out, raw and incoherent.
"…I don't want you to… KILL ANYBODY!"
It didn't matter whether it was a plea for him to stop killing or a statement that I couldn't bear to watch another death. I just wanted the violence to end.
Then, finally, he lowered the gun completely.
The weapon slipped from his hand with a quiet, almost dismissive clatter, hitting the floor.
Eiser was now standing before me, fully disarmed, silent, an unshakable presence in the wreckage of the room.