Smoke claws at Aria’s throat as she drags Damian backward, her lungs burning, her hands slipping on his blood. The hallway shakes again—another explosion somewhere below them—dust raining from the ceiling like ash.
“Stay with me—Damian, look at me!” she cries, her voice breaking.
His eyes flutter open, unfocused, pupils blown wide from blood loss. “Run…” he rasps, trying to push her away with a trembling hand. “Aria… run…”
She refuses. She never will.
Bullets scream past them, ricocheting off steel beams and shattered marble. Aria shoves Damian behind a fallen column for cover and swings up her gun with the steadiness of someone who has already crossed a line she can’t return from. The assassins advance through the smoke—three, five, maybe more—silhouettes shaped like death.
She fires first.
The recoil slams into her arm, but she doesn’t stop. One shot tears through a skull. Another finds a throat. A third lands in a kneecap before she finishes the man with a second bullet. She moves with a precision Damian drilled into her bones, every motion sharp, controlled, lethal.
For a moment, the world is only gunfire and Damian’s ragged breathing.
Then—footsteps.
Rina steps through the settling smoke like a ghost.
Her once-perfect bun hangs loose. Blood splatters her blouse. Her eyes burn with a fury older than the war tearing the building apart.
“Of course you’d be here.” Rina lifts her gun with steady, traitorous hands. “Navarro blood always ruins everything.”
Aria freezes. “Rina… why?”
Rina laughs—a cracked, broken sound. “You really don’t know, do you?” Her gaze flicks to Damian, limp behind Aria. “Your father destroyed my family. Navarro promised us a future. Wolfe destroyed what was left. I serve both their graves now.”
Aria’s stomach hollows. “My father tortured Damian. He tortured everyone. And you’re helping the people who want to rebuild him?”
“Your father promised me power,” Rina snarls. “Damian never saw me as anything but a secretary with good handwriting.”
She steps closer, gun raised.
Aria shifts, shielding Damian’s body with her own. “You don’t have to do this.”
“Sweet girl,” Rina whispers, face twisting, “I’ve been waiting years to do this.”
The shot rings out.
But Damian moves first.
With a guttural sound ripped from the last functioning piece of him, he lunges—not standing, not strong—but moving anyway, dragging his broken body between Aria and the bullet. His arm hooks around her waist, pulling her out of the line of fire.
The bullet grazes his ribs—another scream of pain, another bloom of blood.
“DAMIAN!” Aria sobs, catching him before he collapses fully.
Rina lifts the gun again.
A single echoing crack cuts through the hallway.
Rina falls.
A hole between her eyes.
Jaxon lowers his smoking pistol, breath ragged, face smeared with blood and fury. “Fucking traitor,” he growls, kicking her gun away. Then his gaze snaps to Damian—and his rage shatters into panic. “Shit—he’s going under. Aria—he’s going under!”
Aria cradles Damian’s face between her hands. His skin is cold, too cold, slick with sweat and blood. His lashes tremble but don’t lift.
“Damian, open your eyes,” she whispers, voice shaking uncontrollably. “Please—Damian—look at me.”
His fingers twitch weakly at her collar, tugging lightly—barely there, barely conscious. “Don’t… let… go,” he whispers, breath breaking.
She catches his hand, pressing it to her chest. “I won’t. I won’t ever let go.”
His eyes slide shut.
“No—no, no, Damian—stay awake!” She shakes him lightly, the terror slicing through her more violently than the gunfire. “Damian, stay with me!”
Jaxon kneels beside them, already ripping open his own shirt to press against Damian’s wounds. “We need a medic. Now. The Tower infirmary is gone—we have to get him to the lower levels.”
Aria’s hands won’t stop shaking, but she holds Damian’s head against her chest, rocking him like she can keep his soul inside his body through will alone. “He’s losing too much blood—he’s freezing—Jaxon, he’s freezing—”
“I KNOW,” Jaxon snaps, voice cracking. “But he’s breathing. That’s all we need. That’s enough. Aria—look at me.”
She does, eyes wild with fear.
“Can you fight?” he asks.
Aria doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Good. Because the Circle is still inside the Tower. They’re hunting him.” Jaxon grabs her shoulder. “You protect him. You keep his heart beating. I’ll clear the path.”
Aria nods, swallowing her terror.
Together, they lift Damian.
He groans—barely conscious, barely tethered to the world—as Aria drapes his arm over her shoulders and braces his weight against her body. He’s heavy, but she doesn’t care. She would carry him through fire if she had to.
They stumble down the ruined corridor, stepping over bodies, shattered glass, twisted beams of steel. Every few steps, Aria whispers something—anything—to keep him conscious.
“Stay with me…”
“Don’t close your eyes…”
“Damian, breathe…”
“I’m right here…”
Sometimes he responds with a faint twitch of his fingers. Sometimes with nothing at all.
Every time he doesn’t answer, her heart fractures a little more.
Gunfire erupts from ahead.
Jaxon steps forward, unloading an entire magazine in a ruthless arc, taking down three more attackers who try to flank them. “Move!” he roars. “We’re almost there!”
Aria tightens her grip on Damian. He presses his forehead weakly into her shoulder, voice slurred. “Aria… don’t… be afraid.”
She almost collapses from the ache that sentence inflicts. “I’m not afraid of them,” she whispers. “I’m afraid of losing you.”
His breath stutters—like the admission hits him even through the haze.
They reach the emergency stairwell—but it’s blocked by fallen debris.
Aria shoves at it with all the strength in her body. “Help me—Jaxon, help me move it—”
Jaxon joins her, grunting, veins straining, pushing with everything he has. The metal groans, shifts an inch—
Then the sound of boots thunder down the hallway.
Serpent Circle.
Jaxon whirls, aiming his empty gun like he can manifest bullets through sheer fury.
Aria pushes Damian behind her and lifts her weapon again.
There are too many.
Way too many.
Damian’s fingers brush her hand, weak and cold. “Aria…” he murmurs, “don’t… let go…”
She tightens her grip.
“I won’t.”
Gunfire explodes around them.
Jaxon shouts. Aria fires until the barrel glows hot.
The hallway becomes a slaughterhouse.
And when the last assassin falls—when the smoke thins and the echo of bullets fades—Aria is on her knees, Damian’s head in her lap, her hands covered in blood, her breath coming in wild, broken gasps.
Jaxon tears the final blockage from the stairwell, panting. “We have to move. He’s fading—Aria, he’s fading fast.”
Aria bends over Damian, pressing her forehead to his, tears streaking through the dust and smoke on her cheeks.
“Damian, listen to me,” she whispers fiercely. “If you die, I’ll drag you back myself. Do you hear me? You don’t get to leave me. Not now. Not ever.”
His lips part… barely.
“Aria…”
Just her name. Just that.
But it’s enough.
She kisses his blood-stained forehead once, a vow and a threat and a prayer all in one.
“Don’t let go,” she whispers.
And she carries him into the dark.