Chapter 8
633words
Those words pierced through the screen like shards of ice, stabbing straight into my heart.
I knew I had to face him. With my disguise in tatters, running would be suicide. I was exposed, but I'd also glimpsed his secret. We were like two enemies with fingers on each other's nuclear buttons, locked in a deadly stalemate.
I had to go.
I shut down the computer, threw on a plain coat, and walked out. Midnight New York loomed like a sleeping beast, the biting cold clearing my chaotic thoughts.
No taxi for me. I took the subway, transferring three times through the late-night crowds, shaking any possible tail. Pure instinct—vigilance etched into my bones.
An hour later, I stood at the foot of the "Styx Power" headquarters.
The building knifed into the night sky, silent and imposing. I walked in without a hitch; the security guard didn't even glance up. Damian had cleared my path.
I headed for his private elevator.
Stepping into that familiar metal box—once the stage for my deception—I felt a strange twist of fate. Last time, I orchestrated a lie. This time, I faced judgment.
The doors closed, and we glided upward.
Everything seemed normal.
Until we passed the thirtieth floor.
Without warning, the elevator plunged downward. All lights died. My heart stopped.
No.
This isn't right.
This isn't Damian's style. His games are psychological, intellectual—he'd never use such a crude physical threat. This is Thorne's work. An enraged, reckless retaliation for my "gift."
A piercing, metal-rending crash thundered from above.
The elevator began to fall.
Not a malfunction—a true, uncontrolled free fall hurtling toward hell.
"Ah——!"
Screams tore from my throat. The weightlessness slammed me against the elevator floor like an invisible giant's hand. My mind went blank—all those meticulously calculated revenge plans shredded in the howling descent. All I had left was my primal, terrified scream.
It's over.
Everything is over.
My revenge, my plans—ten years of patience and scheming—about to become an absurd joke in a twisted mess of metal and flesh.
In the rapid descent, time stretched endlessly. Death's cold grip flooded my lungs like seawater. I curled into the corner, helpless, waiting for the final impact.
Just when I thought everything was about to end—
An even sharper boom—like a giant's roar—erupted from beneath the shaft.
The car jolted violently, as if hitting an invisible wall. The inertia threw me upward, then slammed me back down—my bones nearly shattering on impact.
The elevator… had stopped.
It swayed wildly in mid-air, a leaf dangling at the edge of a cliff.
Before I could recover, frantic, thunderous noises erupted from the elevator door.
One, two, three.
Someone was forcing the doors open from outside.
Finally, with an ear-splitting screech of twisting metal, the door tore open. A beam of light cut through the darkness.
A pair of oil-stained hands forced the gap wider.
Damian Blackwood stood framed in the light.
His cold mask was gone. His expensive jacket discarded, white shirt sleeves rolled up, covered in dust and grime. His hair was wild, a bloody scratch marking his face.
His chest heaved violently. In his eyes burned something I'd never seen before—raw fury and… fear.
"Give me your hand!" he shouted, his voice rough as sandpaper.
I reached out instinctively.
He grabbed my wrist—his grip burning like a brand. Effortlessly, he yanked me from the dangling death trap and pulled me behind him.
I stared at him, stunned.
This was the first time I'd ever felt his raw, fierce protective instinct.
He gave me no time to breathe. Grabbing my arm, nearly dragging me, he strode away from the wreckage toward the secure internal staircase leading to the top floor.
His hand gripped like an iron vise. No room for resistance.
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