Red Strings of Fate (Haunted Series 2)

Strings 45: His side (Part II/II)

He slashed at me again, but I shifted to the side, letting the blade cut through empty air. I grabbed his arm holding the weapon, kicked a knee, and used the momentum to let him fall down the stairs, stealing the blade.

Every single one of my thoughts amplifies as I hear a gunshot upstairs. 

"Hope!" Fuck, fuck, fuck!

I stabbed him in the neck while he was down, and I ran as hard as I could with my feet bleeding out. No, I can't lose her. I can't. Please, please, please.

My hand trembles around the knife, and it's a fucking first. After taking a life when I was eight, I've never had my hand tremble around a weapon. Knives, rifles, and guns are not only weapons—They function as an extension of my body and my mind. A way for me to stay alive, but also eliminate anyone who gets in my way.

But when I got to the top, Hope was alone, staring at the open construction window, her gun directed at it.

I hear the thud of a body as I slowly exhale. She's alive. She's okay.

I clenched my shaking fist and forced myself to smirk at her, "There goes that problem."

I carried her down with my bloodstained hands, my hands tightening around her body to protect her.

It feels sacrilege to have her bound to someone like me, or to hold her with bloodied hands that have killed and injured so many. But I was never selfless. I was never the type to let someone go. Call me bad or toxic because I don't fucking plan to let her go out of my sight now.

Scarlet was experiencing what I was scared to happen. Her soul being slowly sucked by the darkness that occurred.

I opened the bathroom door, saw her naked and vulnerable on the floor. She blinked and turned my way, her brown eyes glassy and unfocused like she wasn't seeing me. She was in shock.

Other than everything that happened tonight, taking a life changes a person. You'll hear that from soldiers, from agents—they all say the same. She has that distant, shut-down look in her eyes, like something inside her stopped working. I would know. I saw it almost every time with agents killing for the first time, or agents still not desensitized from missions.

I was once like this, too.

My precious Hope. "I got you."

"Sorry," She sobbed, and I hated the way she apologized, as if it wasn't normal for her to be treated with kindness.

"Don't apologize."

Her body is still rigid, but she doesn't fight me. Once she's calmed down a little from crying, I release her and reach for the cotton robe Hera placed outside the door. Lifting her again, I walked us into the vanity so I could dress her up.

"Shit..." I whisper. Her whole body is a mess of scratches and bruises, all of the marks darker and more obvious than they were hours ago. "Scarlet..."

I would fucking kill everyone in Itasaki. They will pay for touching her.

I gently pull the pajama over her injured side, and she groans but quickly mutes the sound. I'm starting to realize that she hates showing weakness more than anything. That's probably why she didn't want me to help just now.

The doctor arrived to patch her up, and I held her on my chest, deeply breathing so she could mimic the movements to calm down.

"Who disclosed the information?" Tracking the whereabouts of our newest safehouse should've been next to impossible. 

And yet, every time Hope and her family relocated, Itasaki was quick to be there. We're compromised. There's a mole among us. No other explanation fits. And that knowledge—it burns.