I got home late. Way too late. Somewhere around 2 in the morning. My head was pounding — a deep, searing pain anchored at the back like someone had jammed a hot spike through my skull. And with that pain came the confirmation of what I'd feared all along.
This wasn't just Dustin playing one of his usual petty games. This was something else. Something bigger.
The attack today — my base being compromised — it wasn't random, and it damn sure wasn't accidental sure, but it was layered. Calculated. And it makes me wonder if he's figured something out. Or maybe he's not certain yet, just suspicious enough to lash out. But if I'm wrong, and this wasn't about what's been brewing between us, then this could be retaliation — a warning shot in response to my recent dealings with some of his allies.
That alliance a few days ago, the one that shifted the balance — it must've sent him into a rage. I didn't think it would provoke this kind of response, but here we are. Blood on the floor, smoke in the air, and a silence that feels too heavy.
I'll start digging into it tomorrow. For now, I need to strip out of these clothes — dirty, blood-stained, stinking of adrenaline and burnt concrete.
By the time I got to the scene, it was mostly over. My men had handled it. Efficient. Ruthless. I didn't have to do much. But the damage was done. And the rage? It's still pulsing under my skin, fueling the headache, keeping my hands clenched and my thoughts racing.
But it wasn't the violence that stuck with me most.
It was Ruth.
The look on her face when I saw her… It cut deeper than anything else. Fear — sharp and silent. A desperation to feel safe. To know someone would protect her. Then came the worry. And then... nothing. Just that numb, empty stare. She shut down, and I could see it happen in realilty.
She panicked quietly. Didn't scream, didn't cry. She just froze — a ghost of herself. And I left her. I knew the situation she was in, knew what kind of chaos would come down around her. And still, I left her alone in it.
I keep telling myself not to think about her like this. That it's dangerous. That she's a double agent, and there are lines — hard, cold lines — we can't afford to cross. She's playing a role, and so am I. That's the agreement.
But the truth?
The truth is, I don't want lines. I want the exact opposite. I want to tear down everything that threatens her. I want to wrap her in something stronger than armor and burn to ashes anything — anyone — that dares to touch her, scare her, break her.
But I can't think like that. Not now.
There's too much at stake. And weakness, even when it feels like love, is still weakness.
Still… the image of her won't leave me. The silence in her panic. The trust she wanted to have in me, but couldn't, and maybe... that's what hurts the most.
I ran a hand through my hair, frustration clinging to me like the last strands of a long, weary day. The house was quiet, but not in a peaceful way—in that tense, waiting sort of quiet, where the silence feels like it's holding its breath. I climbed the stairs slowly, each step feeling heavier than the one before, the weight of everything I hadn't said, everything I'd pushed down, pressing into my chest.
All I wanted was to disappear into my room, shut the door behind me, and be alone with the hum of my thoughts. But as I reached the top of the stairs and turned into the hallway, something pulled me from that plan—Ruth's door was open.
That wasn't like her.
I paused, standing still in the dim hallway, eyes fixed on the shadowed outline of her doorway.
Should I check on her?A simple thought, but it stirred something deeper. Maybe she's just sleeping. What if I wake her? The last thing I wanted was to disturb her. I didn't trust myself not to make some noise, trip over something, ruin the quiet she'd finally found.
But still, my feet moved before I made up my mind. Slowly, carefully, I stepped closer, drawn by something I couldn't name.
Her room was cast in soft shadows, lit faintly by the hallway light spilling in. And there she was—curled up on her side, nestled beneath a thin blanket that barely clung to her shoulder. Her small body rose and fell with slow, steady breaths, her chest rising just enough to catch the light. She looked so young like that. So still. So fragile.
She was holding a pillow tightly against her chest, arms wrapped around it like it was something precious. Something she couldn't let go of. It wasn't just sleep—it was a kind of surrender. Her brow was smooth, lips slightly parted, her expression almost peaceful. But there was a quiet ache to it, the kind that lingers after tears have dried, the kind that stays even in dreams.
And that image… it did something to me.
It tugged at something deep in my chest, something that had been quietly aching for a while now. I don't even know what it was—guilt, maybe, or helplessness. Maybe both. The way she clutched that pillow, it was like she needed to hold onto something, anything, just to keep herself from floating away. It should've been someone, not something. It should've been me.
I stayed in the doorway longer than I intended, heart heavy, caught in the stillness of that moment. She didn't move. Just breathed, softly, rhythmically, unaware of the storm of feelings stirring just a few feet away. And all I could do was stand there and wish I'd known earlier, wish I'd asked more, listened better.
There's a kind of hurt that doesn't shout—it whispers. It curls up in the dark with a pillow clutched to its chest and hopes no one notices. But I did. And in that quiet moment, I made a silent promise.
Next time, I'll sit beside her before she falls asleep.Next time, I'll ask.Next time, I'll be there when she needs something more than silence.
I didn't blink as I stood there, watching her sleep. Something about her in that moment—curled into herself, unaware of the world outside her dreams—made my chest ache in a way I wasn't prepared for. It wasn't just how peaceful she looked, but how much she seemed to need that peace, like she'd been waiting for it all day and finally let go.
I stepped closer, barely breathing, the old wooden floor threatening to betray me with every creak. The blanket had slipped down to her waist, and the night had grown colder since I last noticed. Without thinking, I reached out and gently pulled it back up, tucking it around her shoulders like a secret I wanted to protect. Her body twitched at the touch—just a small movement—but my heart stuttered. I froze. But she didn't wake.
Thank God.
For a second, I just stood there like an idiot, staring. A quiet smile pulled at the corners of my mouth before I even knew it was there. Her face was soft in the dim light, lips parted slightly, the smallest pout forming as she shifted into the pillow. There was a kind of vulnerability in her that made my throat tighten.
I felt like a stalker, honestly—just standing there, watching her like I had the right. I didn't. Not really.
But I couldn't pull myself away either.
I've done things I'm not proud of—rough things. The kind you don't talk about unless someone forces it out of you. And me and Ruth... we've had our share of fire and ice. Arguments that left bruises you couldn't see, words flung too fast, too sharp. That night at school still sits between us like a shadow. I never apologized. Not properly.
She deserved better. Better than my silence. Better than the apology I've rehearsed a hundred times and never given. I will. I have to. Maybe not now—maybe not in the middle of this mess—but soon.
And when I do, I'll try to keep my distance. I'll stay where she needs me to. I won't make it about me. At least I'll try. I owe her that much.
With a final glance at her sleeping face, I backed away and stepped out of her room. I left the door slightly ajar—just enough to let the warmth stay in but keep the quiet tucked around her.
The hallway felt colder than before. The air sharper. Maybe it was just me.
I made my way to the bathroom, my body heavy, my skin carrying the residue of too many hours, too many memories. The door clicked shut behind me with a soft finality. I peeled off my shirt, the fabric sticking slightly to the sweat at the base of my neck. Boots off. Pants next. I stripped down slowly, layer by layer, like I could somehow leave the weight of the day with each discarded piece.
The water was hot—almost scalding—as I stepped under it. I let it hit my skin like punishment, like penance. My eyes closed, and I let my head fall forward, resting against the cool tile wall. I inhaled.
And then it came.
A scream, high-pitched and raw.Gunfire—short bursts, echoing through concrete.The blast. So loud it split the air.Shouts. Chaos.A child is crying.Girls screaming, not just in fear but in terror that pierces the bones.Men shouting. Groaning.The grunt of a dying breath.The crack of bones.Boots scraping on dirt.The silence after a shot lands.
It all came rushing back—too fast, too loud, too real. The shower was no longer water. It was the sound of war, of blood, of broken things.
I gasped and stumbled back against the wall, eyes flying open. My hand found the faucet, twisting it off sharply. The water stopped, but the memories didn't. I stood there dripping, shaking, my breath ragged. The silence pressed in again.
Eventually, I moved. Slowly, like my limbs had forgotten how. I reached for the towel, wrapped it around my waist, and made my way to the mirror. The reflection that stared back at me didn't look like someone who belonged in this quiet house.
My eyes were sunken, rimmed in shadows. The scar over my left eye looked angrier tonight—red, almost swollen. A line of history that never faded no matter how many times I told myself it would. I traced it absentmindedly with a fingertip, remembering how it got there.
That mission. That mistake. That loss.
I looked into my own eyes—really looked—and for a moment, I didn't see the man I wanted to be. Just the one I became.
Still standing. Still breathing. Still trying.
And for tonight... maybe that was enough.
I threw on a pair of trousers and an old shirt, the fabric still clinging faintly to the warmth of the day. The room was dim now, shadows pooling in the corners, and I sat heavily on the edge of my bed, elbows on my knees, staring at the blank wall in front of me like it might offer something—an answer, maybe, or even just a break from the storm in my head.
But it didn't. It never did.
The thoughts came crashing down, wave after wave, relentless. This wasn't new. Nights like this were almost routine—memories clawing their way to the surface, guilt anchoring itself in my chest, the past refusing to stay buried. I was used to that. The noise, the weight, the silence that followed.
But this time… Ruth was in it.
That was new.
All these years, all these breakdowns, and she'd never been part of the picture. Until now. Until we crossed paths again. And now, somehow, she's everywhere. In every quiet. In every corner of my mind. I can't shake her from it—not that I'm sure I even want to.
I keep seeing her face. Not just how pretty it is—though, God, it is. That soft strength in her eyes, the curve of her mouth when she thinks no one's looking. But more than that—what's behind it. That unshakable will. That grit she's carried, probably alone, through more than I know. She's faced hell and somehow still carries herself like she belongs among the living.
She stood strong. She always has.
And yet…
Today, I cracked that armor.
When we were attacked… the way she looked, frozen in fear, shaking, her eyes wide like she was somewhere else entirely. That image is burned into my memory like a brand. Her body crouched, her voice gone. I'd never seen her that way before. Never thought I could.
And it gutted me.
I can't get it out of my head—the moment her walls gave in. The moment the strength she carried like armor collapsed around her. I wanted to reach out. To hold her. To pull her away from that place she'd slipped into.
I didn't.
I don't know what stopped me. Shock, maybe. Or fear that touching her would break her even more. Or maybe it's just the weight of knowing I've never earned the right.
And now, I'm stuck here—staring at this damn wall, questioning myself. Wondering if what I feel is something deeper than admiration, or if I'm just in awe of her. Of her resilience. Of the way, she's still standing after everything.
Maybe it's both.
But what I do know is that I never want to see her like that again. Broken. Silent. Lost inside herself. I'd take the fight, the cold stares, the walls—anything but that shattered version of her.
She deserves peace. She deserves someone to guard it, if nothing else.
And maybe, if I can't be anything else to her...Maybe I can at least be that
I reached for a cigarette with a trembling hand, the pack nearly empty. I lit it with a flick of my old silver lighter, its flame briefly illuminating the dim room, and drew in a breath of the bitter smoke. It scratched its way down my throat and settled deep in my lungs, like it was trying to anchor me to the moment. I exhaled slowly, watching the thin gray ribbons twist and curl toward the ceiling, then vanish into nothing—like so many words left unsaid.
Beside me was an old notepad, the cover frayed and soft at the edges from years of being carried, discarded, picked up again. I pulled the pen that had been tucked in the corner of the pages and stared at the blank sheet for a moment. The air was still except for the faint hum of early morning traffic outside the window. In my head, her face played like a film reel on loop—soft angles, wild eyes, hair like the wind painted it strand by strand. She wasn't a memory tonight—she was a presence.
I wasn't someone who sketched often. Not anymore. Not even as a child did I draw as much as I'd wanted to. But now… now I needed a place to put all the thoughts colliding in my skull. I couldn't speak them. Couldn't write them. But maybe—just maybe—I could draw them. I could draw her.
Her portrait didn't belong on a page like this. No. A woman like her deserved oil paint and a wall-sized canvas, stretched and gilded and glorious. She deserved color and texture and breath in every stroke. But I didn't have that. I only had this notepad, and this pen, and a storm inside my chest I didn't know what to do with. So this would have to do.
I began with long strokes, letting the pen glide over the paper like it already knew the way. Her face came to life beneath my fingers. The jawline first—soft, defined. Then the curve of her cheek, the smooth slope of her forehead. My hand hesitated slightly, then kept moving. Her nose. The hollow beneath her bottom lip. I wasn't thinking anymore. I was remembering.
When I reached her eyes, I stopped. Not out of hesitation—but reverence. Her eyes weren't just features. They were entire universes—galaxies of thoughts and secrets and storms. I took my time. Her eyelids, her lashes—long and delicate like they were brushed on by the morning breeze itself. The way her eyes narrowed slightly when she smiled.The shadows beneath them from too many sleepless nights.
Photographs never captured her right. Too shallow. Too static. But a sketch—this—this was different. Every line was a second spent with her. Every curve was a memory relived. Drawing someone is an act of knowing them, of honoring every imperfection with attention. It's intimate. A quiet worship.
I'd only finished one eye when I paused and ran my finger over it—softly—smoothing the edge, creating a rawness around the iris that gave it something close to soul. It wasn't perfect. But it was hers. And suddenly, I couldn't stop. I started on the second eye, and soon the rest followed. The shape of her lips, just slightly parted. That little line near her chin she hated, though I always thought it made her real. I lost track of time. The cigarette burned down in the ashtray. Outside, the night faded quietly into dawn. The sun rose while I was still shading the gentle strands of her hair falling over her shoulder.
I didn't notice how the light changed in the room. I didn't notice the silence turning into birdsong. All I knew was the feeling in my chest—a warmth I hadn't felt in weeks. A calm. A quiet heartbeat.
When I finally leaned back and placed the sketch a little farther away, I looked at it. Really looked. And for a moment, I couldn't breathe. There she was. Not in color. Not in motion. But in soul. On this stupid notepad that didn't deserve to hold something so full of life.
A soft smile found its way to my lips—unconscious and effortless. Drawing her hadn't fixed anything. But it had made the weight on my heart a little easier to carry.
She was in the next room, asleep. Or at least, I hoped she was. That knowledge alone made this whole thing harder—sitting here, pretending to focus while her breathing might just be a few feet away, calm or maybe restless. I wanted to knock. Just softly. Wake her gently and ask if the demons in her mind had quieted down, if the weight on her chest had lifted even a little. I wanted to know if she was okay.
But it was 5 a.m. An absurd time to knock on someone's door—especially after the day she'd had yesterday. She deserved rest. She needed it. God knows, she deserved a lot more than sleep, but I couldn't give her peace—I could only try not to disturb what little she found on her own.
So I sat still, thumb mindlessly scrolling through my phone, not reading anything—just moving. Avoiding. Distracting. Eventually, I grabbed my laptop from the floor, the soft whir of it powering on cutting through the silence of the early morning. Work emails. Documents from yesterday I hadn't had the mind to look at until now. I started editing them—mundane reports, some legal drafts that needed adjusting. Mechanical. Numb work. My fingers typed while my mind kept drifting.
I forwarded the last email to James—he'd take it from there, he always did—and shut the lid of the laptop with a soft thud. Silence returned, louder than before. My stomach let out a hollow growl, and I realized just how long it had been since I'd eaten. Dinner hadn't happened last night. The thought of food had felt pointless then.
But now, I stood up, groggy and a little sore from sitting too long, and made my way to the kitchen. The tile was cool under my feet, the kind of chill that made you more aware of being alone. I opened the cabinets, rummaging for something simple. Eggs. Toast. Coffee. As I cracked the eggs into the pan, another thought hit me like a slap I deserved:
Did she eat?I stopped mid-motion, staring at the pan. My mind raced back through the night. I couldn't remember her eating. I couldn't remember asking her if she wanted to.
God, I whispered. Why didn't I make sure of that?
A deep pit settled in my stomach—worse than hunger, worse than guilt. I was so used to living alone, thinking alone, surviving alone. I wasn't used to having someone in my space, someone to care for. Not like this. And yet, she was here now. Fragile, maybe, but trying to be strong. And I hadn't even made sure she had dinner.
I rubbed a hand down my face and turned the burner down. Maybe I'd make enough for two and leave it on the counter, just in case she woke up. Maybe it was too late. Maybe she'd wake up hungry and just not say a word. Or maybe she'd keep quiet like she always did, swallowing the silence the same way she did her pain.
I have to do better.Not for me.For her.
I stood by the stove, flipping the eggs gently in the pan, their edges crackling in the hot oil. The aroma of fresh coffee filled the air, offering a strange kind of comfort in the stillness of the early morning. I poured myself a steaming cup and placed it next to my plate on the counter. Just as I sat down, I heard the soft patter of footsteps behind me.
I glanced over my shoulder.
Ruth stood in the doorway, the morning light catching the soft lines of her face. She wore a pair of loose grey trousers and an oversized hoodie that looked like it belonged to someone else—maybe even me. Her hair was tied in a loose ponytail, strands escaping and framing her face. She gave me a small smile, but the weariness in her eyes betrayed her. Whatever sleep she'd gotten clearly hadn't been peaceful.
"Good morning," I said, voice slightly hoarse, still clinging to the quiet of the hour.
"Good morning," she replied, her smile warm but tired. "You're up early."
I nodded, already pulling out another plate. "Yeah... couldn't sleep much." I slid the breakfast in front of her before she had the chance to refuse. She opened her mouth to protest, but I raised a hand, cutting her off with a playful glare.
"Don't even try. Just eat."
She blinked, caught between resistance and gratitude, and eventually gave in. I turned back to the stove, tending to my own plate. The room was quiet except for the low sizzle of eggs and the gentle clinking of silverware.
"So... how are you feeling?" I asked casually, glancing sideways at her while slipping my eggs onto a plate. I wanted her to know I was listening—really listening.
She exhaled and leaned her elbows on the table, "Honestly? I feel terrible. My head's pounding. But it's nothing I can't handle." She took a bite, then smiled faintly. "Thanks for the breakfast, though."
"You're welcome."
She looked at me for a moment, studying the way I moved around the kitchen, and then smirked. "Didn't think a guy like you could cook."
I paused mid-sip of coffee and raised an eyebrow. "A guy like me? What's that supposed to mean?"
She laughed under her breath, clearly enjoying herself. "You know... I figured the only things you knew how to do were cause bloodshed and make people lose their minds just by walking into a room. Cooking wasn't exactly at the top of the list."
I scoffed, setting my mug down. "Wow. That's the impression I give off?"
She shrugged innocently, biting another piece of toast. "Kinda, yeah."
"Well, beneath all this"—I gestured vaguely to myself—"is a normal person, you know. I'm not all knives and chaos. But... you should be careful," I added, voice dropping into something low and serious. "You're getting a little too comfortable with me."
Her eyes widened slightly, her smile faltering, and I saw the color drain a little from her face.
I let the silence linger just a second longer before I chuckled softly and broke into a grin. "Relax, Ruth. I'm only joking. You can ease up."
She let out a breath, rolling her eyes with a soft smile, the tension easing from her shoulders.
I brought my plate over and sat beside her, and for a while, we just ate. No noise. No pressure. Just the quiet company of two people figuring out how to coexist, learning the subtle rhythm of shared silence.
It was strange… comforting, even.
After my parents, this was the closest thing I'd felt to a quiet morning that didn't weigh heavy on my chest. Nothing grand, nothing overly sweet—just the calm presence of another person in the same space, eating quietly, sharing silence. I hadn't realized how much I missed this kind of normal. The kind that doesn't demand anything from you, but still gives you peace.
The past few months—now stretching into something close to a year—had been a blur. A haze of strategy meetings, late-night surveillance, coded messages, and the slow, relentless unraveling of Ruth's past. I'd been submerged in it all, trying to stay focused. But something shifted.
My feelings for her… they weren't confusing anymore. They were painfully clear. Sharp. Unavoidable.I had two priorities now—bringing down Dustin… and protecting Ruth.And Ruth—she wasn't second on that list. She was the top one.
But I couldn't tell her. Not yet. She needed time. Time to breathe, to find herself again, to heal at her own pace. This mission—her mission—was already demanding too much from her. The last thing she needed was more weight on her back… especially mine.
The silence stretched for a moment, but it wasn't awkward. It was shared, understood. Then Ruth glanced up at me, her fork pausing near her lips.
"Thanks," she said softly. "For taking me to see my parents' graves, Dylan. It means a lot to me. I've… I've been longing to find that place for so long. I just never had the resources. Or the strength."
Her words caught me off guard—not because I didn't expect gratitude, but because she said it with that fragile honesty that always made my throat tighten. Like it hurt her to speak it, but she still did.
I looked down at my plate, then back at her. "There's no need to thank me," I said quietly, my voice edged with something I couldn't quite mask. "It's the least I could do… to start making up for the things I've done."
Her gaze lingered on mine for a beat. She didn't speak—maybe she didn't know what to say, or maybe she understood the weight behind those words. The regret. The restraint. The guilt I carried like a second skin.
And in that silence, something passed between us. Not forgiveness. Not yet. But maybe a beginning.
A small, tired smile crept across her lips as she looked at me—not forced, not polite, but something real, something earned. She set her fork down and leaned slightly forward, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her coffee mug.
"Well… yeah," she said, her voice soft but steady. "I understand. We all make mistakes. We were just kids, Dylan. Angry, broken, scared out of our minds." She let out a breath—half-laugh, half-sigh. "It was messed up. All of it. But… I guess it's whatever now."
Her eyes lifted to meet mine, and this time there wasn't bitterness in them. Just weariness, and something close to peace. "We've got new problems now," she added with a faint smile, "and honestly, those seem bigger than the ghosts we left behind."
I nodded, though the weight in my chest didn't quite ease. But her words—"it's whatever now"—felt like a door slightly cracked open. Not forgiveness, not yet. But maybe understanding. Maybe something close to letting go.
"Yeah," I murmured. "We do."
The silence that followed wasn't heavy. It was a pause between two people who knew too much about pain and just enough about survival. The kind of silence that meant we didn't need to explain anything further.
I looked at her again—really looked—and I wondered if she knew just how much strength it took to sit across from someone who had once been a part of everything that broke her… and still smile.
Ruth's phone buzzed against the table, the sharp chime cutting through the soft quiet of the morning. She picked it up, thumb sliding across the screen as her eyes scanned the notification. Her expression shifted—focused, alert. Business mode.
"There's an update on your schedule," she said, looking up at me. "You've got a request from the investors in Turkey. They're asking for an urgent meeting. Tomorrow." She paused, watching my reaction. "They want to see you in person. What should I tell them?"
I reached for my coffee, took a slow sip, then met her eyes. "Tell them I'll come."
She nodded immediately, her fingers tapping against the screen as she sent the response.
I leaned back slightly in my chair, the wheels already turning in my head. The timing wasn't ideal, not with everything going on—but if they were calling this urgently, it meant it couldn't wait. And I couldn't afford to seem hesitant.
I glanced at her again, and something about the way the morning light caught her tired face made me lower my voice, just a little.
"I guess we're flying to Turkey tonight," I said gently. "Pack some clothes. We leave in a few hours."
She blinked at me, surprised for a second—then gave a small nod. There was no resistance, no fear. Just understanding. We were in this together now, whether either of us had fully admitted it or not.
"Got it," she said softly, standing from the table.
As she disappeared down the hallway to start packing, I finished the last bite of my breakfast and leaned back in my chair, staring at the quiet kitchen.