“Stop.”

The command sliced through the night like a blade.

Joshua didn’t dare look back. His legs were burning, lungs screaming for air as he sprinted through the back alleys of the city. His only thought: Keep running. Don’t let them catch you. Don’t let him catch you.

But fate, as always, had other plans.

His foot caught on the jagged edge of a broken stair. He fell—hard—tumbling down, pain searing through his shoulder as he hit the concrete below. Before he could even gather breath, rough hands seized him.

“Got him,” one of them muttered.

Joshua struggled, but it was useless.

“Take him to my estate.”

Marcel’s voice was cold and casual, like he was ordering wine, not a man’s fate. He didn’t even glance at Joshua as he turned and walked away, his long coat swaying with each step.

They brought him to the basement — stone walls, dim lights, no windows.

Marcel sat, composed, behind a dark oak desk. His eyes were sharp, calculating.

“Where are they hiding?” he asked.

Joshua, bloody but defiant, met his gaze. “I won’t tell you. If you find them... you’ll hurt her.”

Marcel tilted his head. “If you don’t tell me, you’ll be the one to suffer.”

A flicker of fear crossed Joshua’s face, but he steadied himself. “That’s fine. For her, I can endure anything.”

A silent moment passed. Then Marcel shifted his eyes slightly — a signal.

Without a word, one of the bodyguards stepped forward and drove his fist into Joshua’s gut.

And again.

And again.

Joshua collapsed to the floor, coughing, blood pooling at the corner of his lips.

Marcel stood, adjusting his coat with quiet precision. Without a final glance, he left the room, his polished shoes echoing down the hallway.

Behind him, the sounds of violence continued.

Joshua didn’t scream. He wouldn’t give them that.

Not while she was still safe.

.

.

Marcel returned the next morning.

The estate was quiet, almost eerily so. His footsteps echoed through the corridor as he made his way to the basement room — the same room where pain had spoken louder than words the night before.

He entered without ceremony.

Joshua was still there, slumped in the far corner of the room, arms wrapped around his knees. His face was swollen, dried blood crusted on his lip, one eye nearly shut. But he didn’t look up. He didn’t flinch. He just sat there, silent.

Marcel didn’t speak at first. He looked around, then turned to one of his men standing by the door.

“Did he say anything?” he asked calmly.

The guard shook his head once. “Not a word, sir.”

Marcel sighed softly, the kind of sigh that carried more disappointment than rage. He walked forward, slow and deliberate. The room was heavy with silence.

He crouched in front of Joshua, eyes scanning the damage.

Then, without warning, he grabbed Joshua’s jaw, forcing his face up.

Joshua winced but didn’t resist. Bloodshot eyes met Marcel’s cold, unreadable stare.

“You really think she’d do the same for you?” Marcel asked quietly. “Would she bleed for you? Break for you?”

Joshua didn’t answer. His silence was no longer defiance—it was devotion.

Marcel studied him for another moment, then let go of his face with a faint scoff.

He turned toward the door.

“I’ll find them.”

As the door closed behind him, Joshua exhaled slowly, the pain still fresh, but his resolve unshaken.