The world around me stopped.
A high-pitched ringing filled my ears, blending with the wail of sirens echoing across San Francisco's streets. My body lay paralyzed, though my mind was painfully awake. I couldn't command my limbs to move.
A chill ran through my veins, my teeth chattering despite the morning sun casting its soft orange light through the hospital window.
I was a prisoner of my own darkness — my mind suffocating under the weight of fear. What if he's dead?
Dead because of me. Just like her... like my mother, who fell victim to fate and to a drunken man whose insults were sharper than knives, whose eyes devoured everything but her.
She bore the cruelty of life in silence, never once complaining. The echo of her sobs still haunts me.
Is this what poets called love? The same love that teenagers romanticize, dreaming of a partner who will love them endlessly?
I covered my face with trembling hands, as if hiding it could conceal the fractures spreading inside me — the guilt gnawing at my soul, feeding on my fear.
A low murmur broke the silence.
His brows twitched, and his lips parted slightly, releasing a faint sound through cracked, dry lips — proof that his mind was surfacing after ten long days of unconsciousness.
Her mind, however, had been awake every single hour of those ten days, tormenting itself.
She stood abruptly, her pulse racing as she rushed to his side — to the man who had thrown himself into the line of fire for her. She hovered over him, breath held, waiting for his eyes to open.
When they finally fluttered, the light seared them. Slowly, the blur cleared, and reality returned. The white ceiling, the rhythmic beeping of machines, the sterile smell of the hospital — it all came back to him. So did the memory of the attack.
She froze, unable to speak when his gaze met hers.
Their eyes locked — a silence filled with unspoken words — until the door swung open.
Max entered, unaware of the moment he'd interrupted. His eyes widened at the sight of Ethan awake before he bolted out, shouting for a doctor.
The fragile thread between them snapped. She turned away, cheeks flushed with embarrassment, wondering why her concern for a man she'd only just met felt so consuming.
She sat back down, staring at the floor, her heartbeat loud enough for him to hear.
Her palms were slick with nervous sweat despite her ice-cold fingers.
His voice came out hoarse, dry from disuse.
"How long have I been here?"
She hesitated, her voice trembling despite her attempt to sound composed.
"Ten days... since the shooting."
He exhaled slowly. "Were you hurt... after I blacked out?"
His question caught her off guard — not because of the words, but because of the care in them. Why would he worry about her? She wasn't used to being someone's concern.
She had grown accustomed to cold — to empty stomachs and colder beds, to drinking water that never quenched the hunger inside, to burying herself under blankets that never brought warmth.
"I'm fine," she said softly. "Don't worry about me. You're the one who needs rest now."
The silence that followed was heavy, stretching between them like invisible glass. Ethan studied her closely, that instinct of a seasoned detective surfacing.
He'd never imagined that the most renowned psychiatrist in San Francisco would look so fragile, so disarmed.
He broke the silence with a question that made her brows knit in confusion.
"Do you really love your job, Dr. Camila? Is your curiosity about people so strong that you can't help but probe their secrets — even their intentions?"
She fell still, his words striking something deep within her. After a moment, she replied quietly,
"Sometimes, Detective, we're bound by limits we can't break — even if we wish to."
Her vague response only deepened his suspicion. Who was holding her back? And why?
But he wasn't foolish enough to push her — not yet.
Instead, he asked the question that lingered in the air like smoke.
"Are those limits made by people... or by memories that hurt too much to face?"
A faint smile curved her lips — one that both invited and dismissed him.
"Not everything's a conspiracy, Ethan. Sometimes, fate just decides you're meant to heal others' wounds, not your own. Isn't that reason enough? Or have your years as a detective made you see everyone as a suspect?"
He laughed — a dry, painful sound that turned into a groan. His hand clutched his chest, and she jumped to her feet in alarm.
He waved her off with a weak smile. "I'm fine."
Their eyes met again — a fleeting moment that neither could decipher, yet it made their hearts beat faster.
The doctor entered, followed by Max, breaking the spell. After checking Ethan's vitals, the doctor confirmed he was stable but needed two more days of rest.
Camila nodded and left the room, though not just to let him rest — but because she feared what his presence was beginning to stir inside her.
Ethan and Max remained alone.
Ethan stared at the ceiling while Max watched him with his usual teasing grin. He nudged his shoulder.
"So... what did you two talk about while I was gone?"
Ethan shot him a look. "Cut it out, Max. Tell me what you found."
Max chuckled. "The shooters were connected to Leonardo — the last guy we put away."
Ethan frowned, surprised. He had expected the attack to be linked to Liam, not a revenge plot.
Max continued, "The cops tracked their cars. One was dumped off the Golden Gate cliffs, the other's still missing. But they caught three suspects."
Ethan nodded tiredly, running a hand through his hair.
Max's silence stretched too long. Ethan narrowed his eyes. "What is it, Max? Did you find something on Camila?"
Max shook his head, cracking his knuckles — a nervous habit. "Not exactly. But... Alexander Wright called. Wanted to confirm the news about you."
Ethan's jaw clenched. Of course. His father's old friend — and the head of the San Francisco Investigations Unit. It wouldn't take him long to show up, full of condescension and disappointment.
Moments later, the door swung open, and in walked the man himself.
Alexander Wright — tall, commanding, his blond hair streaked with white and slicked neatly back. His icy blue eyes scanned the room with disdain.
"Not only are you a detective who can't protect himself," he said coolly, eyeing the pillow that had fallen to the floor, "but you also destroy public property."
Ethan met his gaze with a calm that only irritated the older man more. "If protecting a civilian counts as failure in your book, then perhaps you should reevaluate your definition of duty, sir."
Alexander's smirk widened. "I don't sit behind a desk, Ethan. I look down from above — where failure is clearer. You've failed as a doctor, and now as a detective. We don't fall in love with suspects."
His voice dripped with accusation. Ethan's eyes hardened.
"I don't fall in love, Director. And unless you have evidence against Dr. Camila, don't speak her name in vain."
The tension between them was suffocating. Max slipped out silently, needing air — needing distance from the storm brewing behind him.
The sterile scent of antiseptic filled his lungs as he walked down the corridor. His gaze drifted from one hospital room to another — until it landed on a face he thought he'd never see again.
For a second, he forgot how to breathe.
Her body was frail, her once vibrant hair now chopped unevenly, her skin pale and bruised. Her sleeves were torn, revealing puncture marks along her arms — traces of the poison that now owned her veins.
She was packing a small worn-out bag when their eyes met.
"E–Elena..." His voice broke, equal parts disbelief and pain.
She froze. Her lips trembled before she whispered, barely audible,
"Let me go, Max. I'm not your wife anymore... not your love. I destroyed that, remember?"
He gripped her arm — not harshly, but desperately. "No, Elena. I forgive you. We can fix this. I'll get you into rehab, we'll start over—"
Her laughter cut him like glass.
"Still dreaming, aren't you? You never grew up, Max. If you really want to help me... give me money."
The words shattered him.
"Elena... I can help you. I'll put you in the best facility in the city. Don't choose this road again."
Even through the fog clouding her mind, she saw it — the breaking in his eyes, the boyish hope dying all over again.
"Stop acting like a child clinging to his mother," she murmured coldly, her frail hand outstretched. "Just give me the money."
A single tear slipped down his cheek as he emptied his wallet into her hand. Then, without another word, he turned away.
He didn't need to follow her to know where she was headed.
He already knew — one of those dim bars near the harbor, trading what was left of her soul for another hit.
So this was love — the kind people wrote poetry about, the kind that promised eternity, only to end in ruin and relapse