Chapter Ninety-Six: The Price of a Shadow
The roar of engines preceded them.
Not the subtle purr of luxury sedans, but the snarling, aggressive growl of armored SUVs tearing through the riverfront streets, tires screaming against asphalt. Doors burst open before the vehicles had fully stopped, and they emerged like avenging angels from a nightmare.
Taehyun.
Jihan.
Minho.
Jinwoo.
And behind them, a wall of black-suited men, weapons raised, faces carved from stone and purpose.
The gunfire outside the tunnel shifted—no longer the controlled, desperate shots of a lone man holding his ground, but a coordinated symphony of violence. Taehyun's men engaged the Lee Consortium's ground team with brutal efficiency, driving them back, pinning them down, clearing a path.
Jihan didn't wait for the path to be clear.
He ran.
Through the chaos, through the crossfire, his eyes fixed on the dark mouth of the tunnel where his wife—his entire world—had taken shelter. A bullet whipped past his ear. He didn't duck. Another sparked off the stone wall beside him. He didn't flinch.
He ran.
And then he was there, in the cold, damp darkness, his arms closing around her like he could shield her from the entire world with just his body.
"Arshi. Arshi." Her name was a broken prayer, torn from his throat. His hands were everywhere—her face, her shoulders, her arms, her belly—checking, searching, desperate for proof that she was intact. "Are you hurt? Did they touch you? The baby—"
"I'm fine." Her voice was watery, trembling, but she was smiling through her tears. "We're fine.She's hurt. Her shoulder. She pushed me out of the way, Jihan. She pushed me."
Jihan's gaze flicked to me, a brief, fierce nod of acknowledgment, before his attention returned to his wife. He cupped her face in his hands, tilting her head up, his eyes tracing every line, every shadow, as if memorizing her all over again.
"I thought I lost you," he breathed, and his voice cracked on the words. "When I saw the photo—when I knew they were watching you—I thought I was going to die."
"I'm here," she whispered, her hands covering his. "I'm here. I'm not going anywhere."
He kissed her then.
Not a gentle, chaste kiss of relief. A desperate, consuming kiss—the kind that tasted like terror and gratitude and the raw, primal need to feel her heartbeat against his own. His hands tangled in her hair, pulling her closer, and she melted into him, her fingers gripping his jacket like he might disappear if she let go.
"Ugh! Stop it!" Junho's voice cut through the tender moment, sharp and annoyed. He was crouched by the tunnel entrance, returning fire, not even looking at them. "There are literally bullets flying, and you're having a romantic reunion! This is not the time!"
Jihan ignored him completely, pulling back just enough to press his forehead against hers, his breath ragged. "Never again," he murmured. "I'm never letting you out of my sight again."
Arshi laughed—a wet, broken sound—and kissed him again, soft and sweet. "I love you too."
"Seriously!" Junho shouted, firing another round. "Get a room! Preferably one without snipers!"
---
Outside, the battle raged.
Taehyun moved through the chaos like a force of nature, his gun a living extension of his arm. He didn't run. He stalked—each step measured, each shot precise, each kill an act of cold, efficient violence. His men flowed around him, a tide of black suits and deadly intent, pushing the Lee Consortium's forces back toward the river.
He was looking for Victor.
He found him near the base of the stairs leading up to the terrace. The sentinel was on one knee, his suit jacket abandoned, his white shirt soaked crimson. Not his blood—not all of it, anyway. He had taken down three of the ground team himself, their bodies sprawled around him like fallen soldiers paying tribute to a king.
But he was bleeding. A gash on his forearm. A bullet graze along his ribs. Nothing fatal. Nothing that would stop him.
"Victor." Taehyun dropped into a crouch beside him, firing over the low stone wall at a shooter in the distance. "Status."
"Five hostiles remaining on the ground. Sniper still on the rooftop, but his angle is compromised by the tree line. He's blind to the tunnel entrance." Victor's voice was calm, clinical, as if he were reciting a grocery list. "The women are secure. Mrs. Kim has a flesh wound to the left shoulder—superficial, but bleeding. She needs medical attention."
Taehyun's jaw tightened at the mention of my injury, but he didn't break focus. "Minho and Jinwoo are covering the tunnel. They'll get them to the cars."
"I'll provide cover." Victor began to rise, his movements steady despite his wounds.
"Stay down." Taehyun pushed him back, his hand firm on Victor's shoulder. "You've done enough."
"I can still fight."
"I know you can." Taehyun's voice was quiet, fierce. "That's not the point."
Their eyes met—a silent communication that spanned years of trust, of battles fought side by side, of blood spilled and bonds forged in fire. Victor gave a single, sharp nod and settled back against the wall, his gun still raised, still ready.
---
Minho and Jinwoo arrived like the cavalry in a western—except their horses were bulletproof SUVs and their guns were very, very real.
Minho took point, his expression as unreadable as ever, his shots as precise as a surgeon's scalpel. He cleared a path from the tunnel to the nearest armored vehicle with methodical efficiency, each bullet finding its mark, each movement economical and deadly.
Jinwoo, for once, wasn't joking. His face was set in hard lines, his usual playfulness replaced by a grim, focused intensity. He flanked the women as they emerged from the tunnel—Arshi still clinging to Jihan, Sara supporting me, my makeshift bandage now soaked through with blood.
"Move, move, move!" Jinwoo barked, herding us toward the open car door. "Eyes forward, don't stop, don't look back!"
I didn't look back.
I couldn't.
The sound of gunfire was too loud, the taste of blood too sharp in my mouth, the pain in my shoulder too bright. I focused on putting one foot in front of the other, on the solid grip of Sara's hand, on the dark, blessed interior of the armored SUV that promised safety.
We piled inside—Arshi first, then Sara, then me—and the doors slammed shut, sealing us in a cocoon of leather and bulletproof glass. The engine roared to life, and we were moving, speeding away from the chaos, from the violence, from the nightmare.
But I couldn't stop thinking about Victor.
About the way he'd stood between us and the bullets.
About the way he'd fought alone, outnumbered, outgunned, because it was his job.
His job.
But it felt like more than that now.
---
Taehyun was the last to leave.
He covered the retreat, his men falling back in waves, providing cover fire as the SUVs pulled away. The Lee Consortium's forces were broken, scattered, leaderless—Daehan's capture had shattered their morale. But the sniper on the rooftop was still a threat, still watching, still waiting for a clear shot.
"Taehyun, we need to move!" Junho yelled, firing a burst toward the rooftop. "Now!"
"I know." Taehyun scanned the area, calculating distances, angles, the position of his remaining men. "Victor, with me. We're pulling back."
Victor rose from behind the stone wall, his gun still raised, his eyes still scanning for threats. He moved to Taehyun's side, their shoulders almost touching—two predators, side by side, retreating from a hunt that had turned sour.
They were fifty meters from the last SUV.
Forty.
Thirty.
And then the sniper fired.
The first shot hit Victor in the back.
He stumbled, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, but he didn't fall. He kept moving, kept his gun raised, kept his body between Taehyun and the distant rooftop.
The second shot hit him in the shoulder.
He spun, his gun clattering to the ground, his arm hanging useless at his side. Blood soaked through his shirt, dark and fast, spreading across his chest like a stain.
"Victor!" Taehyun's roar was raw, desperate, as he grabbed his friend's arm, trying to pull him toward the car.
The third shot hit him in the thigh.
His leg buckled. He went down, his body hitting the pavement with a sickening thud, his eyes wide with shock and pain.
But even as he fell, he shoved Taehyun—hard—pushing him out of the line of fire, putting himself between the sniper and his boss one last time.
"Go," Victor gasped, blood bubbling on his lips. "Go!"
Taehyun didn't go.
He dropped to his knees beside his fallen friend, his hands pressing against the wound in Victor's chest, trying to stem the flow of blood. His own shirt was soaked now—red and wet and warm.
"Hey. Hey!" Taehyun's voice was sharp, commanding, the voice of a man who refused to accept defeat. "Victor. Look at me. Look at me, damn it!"
Victor's eyes fluttered, his gaze unfocused, drifting toward the grey sky above. "The women… are they…"
"They're safe. They're in the car. They're safe because of you." Taehyun's hands pressed harder, his knuckles white. "Now you stay with me. You hear me? You stay awake."
"Tae…hyun…" Victor's voice was fading, each word an effort. "My… my cereal report… was accurate…"
"Shut up about the cereal." Taehyun's voice cracked. "Shut up and keep your eyes open."
But Victor's eyes were closing, his lashes fluttering against his pale cheeks. The blood kept coming, no matter how hard Taehyun pressed, no matter how much he willed it to stop.
"Don't you dare." Taehyun's voice was a whisper now, fierce and broken. "Don't you dare close your eyes, Victor. That's an order."
Junho appeared beside them, his face ashen, his hands already reaching for Victor's other wounds. Minho was on the radio, screaming for a medic, for an evac, for anything that would save the man bleeding out on the cold pavement.
Jinwoo stood guard, his gun raised, his eyes scanning the rooftop where the sniper had gone silent—either fled or out of ammunition, no one knew.
And in the middle of it all, Taehyun knelt in a pool of his friend's blood, holding pressure on wounds that might already be fatal, whispering words that sounded like prayers.
"You're not dying today. You hear me? You're not dying. I won't let you."
Victor's lips moved, but no sound came out.
His eyes closed.
"VICTOR!"
The name echoed across the riverfront, swallowed by the sirens in the distance, by the chaos of the retreat, by the silence of a man who had given everything—and might have just paid the final price.
---
In the SUV, speeding away from the nightmare, I felt the shift before I heard the news.
A cold, creeping dread that started in my chest and spread outward, freezing my blood, stealing my breath.
Arshi was crying silently, curled against Jihan, who had somehow found his way into the car beside her. Sara was gripping my hand so hard I could feel her bones.
And I—
I was thinking about Victor.
About the way he'd eaten that raspberry and looked like he'd discovered a new emotion.
About the way he'd crouched beside my bed during the thunderstorm, not because it was his job, but because he understood.
About the way he'd called my preferred cereal "nutritionally suboptimal" and meant it as a professional assessment.
He was supposed to be invincible.
He was supposed to be a robot, a shadow, a sentinel who would always be there, lurking poetically in the middle distance, protecting us from threats we couldn't even see.
He wasn't supposed to bleed.
He wasn't supposed to fall.
And as the SUV sped toward the mansion—toward safety, toward medical care, toward an uncertain future—I pressed my hand against my wounded shoulder and prayed.
Not for myself.
For the man who had become our shield.
For the shadow who had stepped into the light.
For Victor.
Please. Don't let him die.