Elias's POV

Pain.

Not mine.

His.

Luke is a ruin at my feet. A spectacle of torn skin, fractured ribs, and breath that rattles like a broken engine. The bookstore is a graveyard of shattered glass and twisted metal, and the air reeks of gasoline and dust.

It’s quiet. Too quiet.

Amina is kneeling beside him, hands trembling as they hover over his body, unsure where to touch, where to help. Her breath is sharp, panicked. Max is saying something—too fast, too frantic—but the words barely reach me.

The others stand frozen. Some watching. Some not.

None of them matter.

Not right now.

Right now, it’s just me.

And him.

The glass crunches beneath my shoe as I take a slow, deliberate step forward. Luke stirs at the sound. His eyelashes flutter against bloodstained skin. A slow, pained inhale. And then—his eyes find mine.

And oh…

That look.

Not just pain. Not just exhaustion. But something deeper. Realization.

He knows.

Not everything. Not yet. But enough. Enough to understand this is no accident. That the moment his brakes failed, his fate had already been decided. That whatever he thought he was running from—

He just ran into something worse.

I crouch beside him, slow, controlled. The others are too caught up in their shock to notice.

Amina is too focused on the bleeding.

Max is too busy panicking.

Sophie, Bruce, Rayhan, Zach, Irene… they are noise behind a closed door.

But Luke?

Luke is present.

He is trapped.

His breath is shallow, his fingers twitch against the ruined floor, and when I lean in—just close enough for only him to hear—his entire body stiffens.

I smile.

Not for kindness.

Not even for mockery.

But because I enjoy this.

The understanding. The creeping horror sinking into his bones like ice water. He sees it now.

He sees me.

"You’re late," I murmur.

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His pupils dilate, and for the first time since he hit the pavement, I see something else in his face—

Terror.

I reach down. My fingers brush the jagged edge of a glass shard beside his face, tilting it just slightly. The smallest movement. A whisper of a threat.

The shard glints in the broken bookstore light as I angle it toward his throat. A fraction more, and—

But I don’t.

Not yet.

Instead, I lean in closer. My voice is silk spun around razors.

"Tell me, Luke…"

"Did you think you were the hunter?"

A sharp inhale. A flicker of resistance in his bloodshot eyes.

He wants to speak, to say something, but he doesn’t.

Because he understands.

This was never his game.

Never his hunt.

His breath hitches. I can feel it—the war inside him, the puzzle pieces clicking together too late.

I let the moment stretch, let the knowledge seep into him like a poison.

Then I stand.

Amina shifts, her panic sharpening as she notices me too close.

I smile at her.

Gentle. Reassuring. Lying.

"He’ll be fine," I say, smooth and effortless. "He just needs to rest."

Luke’s breath shudders.

Because he knows.

And the best part?

No one else does.

I step away, slow, measured. The chaos swirls around me—Max’s frantic shouting, Amina’s desperate attempts to stop the bleeding, Irene’s sharp inhale like she already knows something is wrong—

But none of it touches me.

Because Luke is already exactly where I want him to be.

And soon?

The rest will follow.

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