Ryan didn’t even get the words out before gunshots shattered the air.
Between the rain hammering down and the rapid-fire cracks, he couldn’t tell which sound hit first.
In his twenty years, he’d never seen anything like this. Not in real life. Not even on TV.
Less than three minutes later, every one of those thugs was on the ground—gone without even getting to bark a threat.
Ryan just stood there, stunned, wondering if he was hallucinating.
Every shot had been a headshot. Not one missed.
He slowly sat up, barely breathing, afraid even to blink.
That couldn’t be Clara. No way.
But the figure moved closer, slim but somehow as solid and intimidating as a mountain.
His mouth opened, but tears spilled out before he could say a word.
Shit…
That wasn’t Clara. That was Death itself.
He sniffled hard, trying to pull himself together, and finally looked up. “C-Clara?”
Clara crouched next to him, brows drawn tight at how pathetic he must look.
He braced himself for a slap—honestly, he kind of deserved it—but it didn’t come. The wait was almost worse than the blow.
“Clara, you should just hit me. I always drag you down. I’m useless, I—”
He didn’t get to finish. She grabbed a knife from the floor—one of the ones the men had dropped—and sliced through the ropes tied around his wrists.
His ribs ached, sharp and deep. He leaned on the wall to push himself up, sweat sticking his shirt to his back. The rain outside made everything colder.
Ryan wanted to cry again. He hadn’t seen Clara in so long. After that night in the motel, she’d just disappeared. Dylan had hidden her away somewhere, and nobody could find her.
“Clara… What happened to your mouth?” His voice cracked at the sight of blood at the corner of her lips.
She shrugged, taking a few steps forward. “Dog bite.”
She didn’t wait, just stopped and glanced back. “You coming or not?”
Ryan shivered, limping along the wall to follow her. “Are you really my Clara? ‘Cause you… I mean, you seem…”
Different. Like someone else entirely.
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