A man stood a few feet away, a gun still raised in his hand. His dark eyes met mine, unreadable, unwavering.
He stepped closer, lowering his weapon. "Are you alright?"
I could barely nod. My mind was reeling, my body still shaking from the adrenaline.
The stranger knelt beside Bryant’s motionless body and pressed two fingers against his throat. Then he exhaled sharply. "He’s dead."
I stared at him, my breaths coming in shallow gasps. "Who are you?"
"Armani Hector," he said simply. "Angela’s brother."
Angela.
I clutched my chest, relief and confusion washing over me in equal measure. "She sent you?"
He nodded. "She begged me to save you. And now, we need to get out of here before his men find us."
I didn't argue.
Armani led me through the forest, his movements swift and calculated. He knew exactly where to go, avoiding every possible patrol until we reached an abandoned road. A black car was waiting for us.
For weeks, I stayed hidden in his apartment, recovering from everything I had endured. Armani provided me with new clothes, food, and—most importantly—safety.
One day, as I was staring out the window, he finally spoke the words that shattered my fragile sense of peace.
"Angela’s dead."