Cynthia
The antiseptic hit me before anything else. It clawed at the lingering perfume and spilled drinks clinging to my clothes, sharp and sterile. My heels clicked hard against the hospital floor as Marcus guided me through the emergency bay, hand firm on my elbow, steadying me while my thoughts threatened to run wild. Raymond had collapsed. I could still feel the weight of him in my arms, the faint warmth of his hand against mine, the way his eyes had locked onto mine before darkness swallowed him.
"Mrs Cynthia, deep breaths," a nurse said, her voice clipped, calm. She held my arm lightly, trying to anchor me, but I barely heard her over the pounding of my own heart. Marcus didn't flinch, didn't hesitate. He was already speaking low into his earpiece, coordinating with doctors, eyes sharp, movements precise.
"Details," he said quietly, not to me but as a reminder. "Who else was there at the party?"
"I… I don't know," I whispered. My voice cracked. I shook my head, but my fingers twitched, and I found myself pointing vaguely toward the doorway. "Just… that woman—the one with the mask…" I caught myself, realized I couldn't even describe her fully. She was a stranger. Masked, composed, deliberate. Not anyone I had known before.
Marcus's eyes narrowed. Just a slight shift, nothing more. He didn't ask more. He didn't need to. He already knew what I couldn't say, what he had gathered from the chaos. He was the tether keeping me from unraveling.
Raymond's fingers twitched in mine. His eyelids fluttered, and he murmured, faint, rasping:
"Marcus…"
"Yes, boss?" Marcus leaned closer, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Captured?"
"Yes, boss," Marcus said again, low and precise. No tremor, no hesitation.
I flinched as a voice echoed in my memory, sharp, angry, accusing:
"See what you did to my son!"
--- Flashback ---
I was twelve. Mother's eyes had burned holes through me, wild and fierce. Her hands had trembled with anger as she shook me for some small mistake, her voice a lash that left scars on my memory. I could still feel the sting, the panic, the raw guilt.
--- Present ---
I blinked. The ICU lights were harsh, unforgiving. Raymond's hand squeezed mine, grounding me in the storm of my thoughts. I leaned closer, pressing my forehead lightly against his wrist. Chemistry sparked in that simple gesture, and my chest tightened with relief and fear.
Desmond was there. I didn't see him arrive, didn't notice until his presence pressed against the edge of my awareness. Twenty-seven, Raymond's younger brother, smirk quiet, calculating, wishing something dark and subtle without drawing attention. Silent. Dangerous.
The doctors moved with urgent efficiency, but they didn't interrogate me. Marcus had already supplied all the necessary information. I was there to stay steady, to be a witness, not a detective. Tubes and monitors hummed, the faint beeping setting the rhythm of panic and controlled order.
Raymond whispered again, eyes fluttering, barely audible.
"Marcus…"
"Yes, boss," came the quiet reply.
"Captured?"
"Yes, boss," Marcus confirmed, just as precise as before. Desmond's eyes flickered—he hadn't heard everything, but he knew enough to sense the undercurrent. Marcus gave nothing more.
I held Raymond's hand tighter. His skin was warm, steady despite the pallor of shock. Even in weakness, there was calculation in his faint smiles, in the slight twitch of his lips. He had survived because he had chosen to—not because he was naive.
The nurse spoke again, gentle, almost coaxing. I gave what details I could, my voice raw, choked. Marcus absorbed every word, every pause, every glance I gave Raymond. I noticed him nodding once, a subtle acknowledgment: control. Information gathered, ready for next moves.
The ICU doors swung closed behind us. Silence pressed in, broken only by the hum of machines. The antiseptic smell lingered, clinging to my hair, my clothes, my thoughts. I realized, with a jolt, that the drink wasn't the only danger. This was bigger. Someone had targeted him, deliberately, calculated, precise.
My heart hammered against my ribs as Raymond's chest rose and fell, fingers still entwined with mine. I wanted to speak, to question, to shake the world and demand answers—but I stayed still. Because Marcus needed eyes on me. Because Desmond loomed quietly, a shadow I couldn't fully shake. Because Raymond had survived, deliberately, risking everything to ensure my safety.
And then the door opened again. Mother appeared, eyes blazing, fury and worry colliding.
"What happened?" she demanded, her voice cutting through the sterile calm.
"I—I don't know, Mom," I stammered.
"Look at him!" she cried, stepping closer. "See what you did to my son!"
I flinched, heart clenching. She had arrived after everything had happened, but she didn't need to witness the collapse to feel rage, fear, guilt. She carried it in her voice, in her sharp words, in her presence.
Raymond's hand gave mine a weak squeeze. I leaned closer again, pressing my cheek briefly to his wrist. The gesture, so small, felt monumental. Chemistry sparked without words, without declarations. Just this tether, this fragile connection amid chaos.
Marcus's eyes shifted, a silent command to stay steady. Desmond didn't move. His smirk didn't fade, but his gaze sharpened. He watched, calculating. Observing. Waiting.
I swallowed, grounding myself. Danger was closer than I realized. Every detail mattered. The masked stranger, the poison, the silent players circling us—all moving pieces on a board I had no control over. Yet I clung to him, to the rhythm of his pulse, to the warmth of his hand in mine.
I wanted to ask, to cry, to shake the world for letting this happen—but the only thing I could do was stay still. Steady. Present. Watching. Protecting.
Because Raymond had survived, deliberately. Not recklessly. Not naively. He had chosen every step, and now the stakes were laid bare before me.
Do I owe him my life—or my future?