Fadel

Style was a nightmare unleashed.

I had seen him fight before—seen him take down men with a smirk on his face like it was all a damn game. But this?

This was different.

There was no amusement, no teasing, no control. He moved like a ghost through the gunfire, his shots landing with precision, his knife flashing between ribs and throats when he got in close. Every movement was brutal, efficient, deadly. The men who came for us had no idea what they had just provoked.

I was already moving to back him up, firing off rounds to cover him, when I caught sight of Kant scrambling toward Bison.

Bison had slumped against the wall, his breathing shallow, his hands pressing weakly over the wound in his side. There was too much blood, pooling beneath him, soaking into his shirt. Kant skidded to his knees beside him, yanking off his jacket and pressing it hard against the wound.

"Stay with me, Bison," Kant muttered, voice tight with panic. "You're not dying here, you hear me?"

Bison's lips twitched like he wanted to say something, but his eyes were losing focus.

I gritted my teeth. We needed to end this. Now.

I turned back to Style. He was still cutting through the last few attackers, his movements a blur of rage and violence. One man tried to run. He didn't get far. Style caught him by the back of the neck, yanked him back, and drove a knife into his side before kicking him away like trash.

I shot the last one before he could reload his weapon.

Then, silence.

My ears were still ringing, the air thick with the scent of gunpowder and blood.

Style stood in the middle of the carnage, chest rising and falling with sharp breaths, his hands slick with red. He wasn't moving. Just standing there, staring down at the bodies like he hadn't even registered the fight was over.

I stepped toward him, careful. "Style."

Nothing.

I reached out, gripping his shoulder. "It's done."

He tensed under my touch, and for a second, I thought he might lash out. But then he exhaled, long and slow, like he was forcing himself to come back to reality. His grip on the knife loosened, and finally, finally, he looked at me.

"We need to go," I said firmly.

He blinked, then nodded once.

I turned back to Kant and Bison. Kant was still pressing down on the wound, his hands shaking slightly. Bison's head lolled to the side; his breathing too shallow for my liking.

I pulled out my phone and dialed fast.

The line clicked, and a gruff voice answered. "Didn't expect to hear from you so soon, Fadel."

"Bison's hit," I said without preamble. "We need medical aid. Now."

A pause. Then, "How bad?"

"Bad."

Another pause, shorter this time. "Five miles north. Safe house. You know the one."

"I do."

"Get him here fast." The line went dead.

I shoved my phone back into my pocket and turned to the others. "We're moving. There's a safe house five miles out. Doctor's meeting us there."

Kant looked up at me, his jaw set. "Can he make it?"

"He has to," I said.

No one argued.

We didn't have time.

We weren't safe here anymore. Whoever sent these men would send more. And next time, we might not make it out alive.

Style's POV

Bison's head was heavy in my lap. Too heavy.

His skin was pale, too pale, his breaths coming too slow, too shallow. Blood was everywhere—on my hands, on my clothes, soaking into the fabric beneath him. I pressed down on the wound, but it felt useless. Like trying to hold back the ocean with my bare hands.

"Baby..." The word slipped out, cracked and quiet. I didn't care if the others heard. I didn't care about anything else right now.

I cupped the side of his face with my free hand, fingers trembling against his jaw. He was burning up, but somehow, he still felt cold. Too cold.

"Come on, big guy. Stay with me." My voice wavered, and I bit the inside of my cheek hard enough to taste blood. "You hear me? You don't get to do this. You don't get to leave me."

His lashes fluttered, barely, and his lips parted like he wanted to say something, but no sound came out.

I swallowed hard. My vision blurred, my throat closing up. No. Not now. I couldn't lose it now.

I bent forward, my forehead pressing against his. "I swear to God, if you die on me, I'll—" My breath hitched. "I'll kill you myself, you hear me?"

His lips twitched, just slightly. The faintest ghost of a smirk.

I let out a choked laugh. "Yeah? Think that's funny, huh?" My fingers curled against his skin. "You think—" My voice broke completely, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

The tears were coming. I could feel them pressing behind my eyes, hot and aching.

I buried my face in his hair, holding him like I could keep him here by sheer force of will.

"Hold on," I whispered, over and over again. "Hold on, baby. Just a little longer."

Kant's POV

The car smelled like blood.

It was everywhere—on Bison, on Style, even on my own hands despite how hard I had pressed down on the wound. The metallic tang clung to the air, thick and suffocating.

But what unsettled me the most wasn't the blood.

It was Style.

I had seen him cocky. I had seen him reckless. I had even seen him pissed beyond reason. But this? This was different.

He was holding onto Bison like he was afraid he'd slip through his fingers. His hands were cradling Bison's face, his thumb brushing absently over his cheek like he was trying to memorize every detail. He kept murmuring under his breath, the same thing over and over—baby, baby, baby—his voice breaking more each time.

I sat in the front seat, but I could hear it all. The way his breaths were coming too fast, too uneven. The way his words started catching in his throat.

He was trying to hold it together. And yet, he was losing it.

Fadel was driving, fast but controlled, his jaw clenched so tight I could see the tension running through his arms. He didn't say anything, but I knew he was listening too.

None of us had ever seen Style like this.

None of us had ever seen him this raw.

I turned slightly, glancing back again. Bison was barely conscious, his head resting against Style's chest, his breath uneven.

"Almost there," I said, though I wasn't sure if I was saying it for Bison or for Style.

Style didn't react at first. Just kept his eyes locked on Bison, his grip tight, his fingers shaking slightly. Then, after a long moment, he swallowed and nodded.

But I could see it.

The fear in his eyes.

The fear that, for the first time, this was something he couldn't joke his way out of. Something he couldn't fight his way through.

For the first time, Style looked helpless.

And that scared me more than anything.