Chapter 17

Elena’s POV

I didn’t notice how much weight I’d dropped until my clothes started hanging off me. The dress I wore this morning, one I used to like just sagged. Loose at the waist, sleeves swallowing my arms. When I passed the mirror in the hall, I had to stop. My own face startled me. Hollow cheeks, tired eyes that looked bruised. I looked like a stranger, or someone sick.

My phone was still in my hand. Warm. Heavy. I’d finally turned it off because every time the screen lit up, Clara’s message felt alive again. I can’t risk my life being with you. Unlike you, I have a family to protect. I kept hearing it, reading it, even with the phone dark. Her words were everywhere, echoing inside my head.

I ate a little today. Two crackers, a small bottle of water. Useless. Both came back up an hour later. My stomach felt hollow, like it was eating itself. The room smelled damp, with a hint of bleach and something sour underneath. I grabbed my bag some shirts, an old sweater, a little cash tucked in a book and kept breathing, just to prove I still could.

The lipstick tube with the hidden blade was in my hand again. I kept rolling it between my fingers, sliding it in and out of my pocket. I wasn’t planning to use it. Not tonight. But the memory of last time cutting just enough to feel, to breathe lingered like a secret no one could take from me. A stupid one, maybe, but mine.

I shoved the rest of my things into the bag and slung it over my shoulder. My legs felt heavy. Even the air felt thick, like I had to push through it. Staying here wasn’t an option anymore. Leaving wasn’t safer, but at least it was something.

The stairwell was dim, lights buzzing and dying. My footsteps echoed too loudly, as if someone was following. One flight down. Then another. The fog in my head didn’t lift. If anything, it pressed harder.

Outside, the rain had started. Thin, sharp drops against my skin. The city smelled like wet asphalt and smoke. People kept moving around me—a couple shouting at each other, someone laughing too hard, a siren far off. I kept walking. If I stopped, I’d think. If I thought, I’d break.

Halfway down the block my chest started racing. My pulse banged against my ribs. My vision blurred at the edges. I pressed my fingers to my temples. The bag on my shoulder felt like bricks. My knees shook. Something inside me was pushing, clawing, trying to get out.

Maybe it was hunger. Maybe shame. Maybe just the weight of everything. I could taste iron in my mouth. I whispered to myself, “Keep going. Get to the station. One foot, then the other.”

But when I bent to fix the bag, the ground jumped at me. My body didn’t obey. Sounds blurred into a hum, like a broken radio. Someone shouted, or maybe I dreamed it. My knees buckled, and the street tilted up and caught me hard.

The shock rattled me, but I wasn’t fully gone. Not yet. I could still hear. Footsteps, quick and steady, shoes scraping against wet pavement.

“She’s down,” a man’s voice snapped. Firm. Cold.

A hand touched my shoulder steady, not cruel. I smelled leather and rain. Another voice came, lower, calmer. “She’s breathing. Weak, but breathing.”

I tried to open my eyes. Heavy. Too heavy. Two shapes leaned over me, blurred like shadows.

“We need to move her,” one said.

“Not upright,” the calm one answered. “Keep her flat. Call it in.”

I heard the buzz of a phone. Words spilling fast location, confirmation. Then the phrase that stuck: Damian’s men.

Even through the haze, the name landed like a weight. This wasn’t just me collapsing. This was something else. Something bigger pulling me in.

The calmer one leaned close. His voice dropped. “Don’t fight it. Don’t try to wake. You’re in shock.”

The rain soaked into my dress. My fingers curled against the fabric. The cut on my stomach stung my private proof of being alive.

They bent, lifted me. The world tipped. For a shameful moment, I felt relief. Being carried was easier than being left behind.

“Boss will want to see her,” one muttered. The words pushed through the fog and hooked onto me. My heart stuttered.

The car door opened. Rain drummed against the roof. Inside, the engine hummed, steady like a heartbeat. One of them kept a hand at my back, keeping me steady. A radio crackled. They talked about routes, time, keeping me intact.

“Easy,” someone repeated. “Easy.”

I tried to speak, to ask where, but my throat was dust. Only a rasp came out. Lights smeared across the window as the car moved.

“Shh,” the voice near me whispered. “Sleep.”

So I let go. It wasn’t real sleep, more like drifting. My thoughts unhooked, one by one. As I slipped under, my last thought wasn’t Clara. It wasn’t even Damian. It was the sting of that cut, the absurd reminder that I was still here. And a fragile, foolish hope that maybe, when I woke, the air would be different.

The car swallowed the noise of the city. My pulse thudded faintly in my ears. And just before I drifted all the way down, I caught the words that sealed it:

“We’re taking her to him.”