Chapter 4 Four

At the end of the hallway.

Abigail ran until she reached a blind spot.

"Stop her."

"There she is."

Two thugs approached with machetes in their hands, laughing maliciously.

"Ah." Abigail tried to jump the railing to fall to the lower floor, but she slipped and lost her balance.

At that moment, there were sounds of blows and cries of struggle not far away, then the dull thud of bodies falling.

A hand, with bone almost exposed, appeared before her.

Blood dripped from the tips of Dante Hendricks's fingers, staining Abigail's terrified face.

"Why are you here?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"I will get you out of there," he added, holding back the pain as he tried to grab her arm.

"Watch out behind you." Abigail suddenly shouted.

Dante turned instinctively, but the machete grazed his arm, leaving a deep, bleeding wound.

"Ugh," he uttered a muffled groan. Dizzy, he fell against the wall, the red of the blood spreading across his white shirt.

The color was so intense it hurt to look at.

"Please let me go. I will give you whatever you want. Money, anything, just don't hurt me." Abigail begged, clutching the railing, tears blurring her vision.

Her feet barely touched the floor; she could not hold on or jump.

"Will you run again, damn her. Run if you can," one mocked, setting the machete aside and stretching his hand to break her fingers.

"No, please," she whimpered, gripping the railing harder.

She could not die.

Her sister was still waiting for her. She needed to keep living to send money for the treatment.

"Move aside," the other gang member roared. "I will kill her today."

He raised the machete above his head.

At that instant, Abigail let go of the railing and fell.

Five floors.

"No," Dante shouted, reaching out his hand toward her.

The void echoed him back.

He ran down the stairs, searching through the crowd, but found no trace of her.

"Where is she?" he murmured, desperate.

His gaze fell on a garbage truck stopped in the middle of the street.

It was right under the spot where she had fallen.

"Are you in there?" he asked in a low voice, approaching.

Silence.

He frowned, leaned over, and peered inside.

Suddenly, Abigail sprang up inside the truck, holding the knife and pointing it at his chest.

"You." Dante froze.

"You're still alive," was all she said.

Seeing the blood streaming from his arm, her face tightened. Without a word, she climbed down from the truck and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Dante followed her, staggering, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

They left the campus and reached an abandoned factory.

There, Abigail opened an old box and took out a bottle of disinfectant. She began calmly cleaning his wounds.

From the doorway, Dante watched her in silence.

Something pushed him to step closer.

Although he kept telling himself she was not Orabelle, that voice, that motion when she lowered her gaze, confused him more and more.

"You scared me," Dante murmured without thinking.

Abigail glanced at him briefly and continued tending the wound.

"Don't worry. Even if they had wanted to cut my fingers off, I would not have let go. Nothing is worth more than life."

Her voice was calm, but the words hurt like knives.

"Do you want to live like this so much?" Dante asked suddenly, almost to himself.

"Even if I live like a dog, I will keep living," she answered without hesitation.

She finished bandaging his arm with an old cloth.

"Is that how you always treat wounds?" he frowned. "I will take you to the hospital."

"You are the one who should go to the hospital," she replied, looking at the blood staining his own bandage. "I have no money, no time. Rich people like you can afford to fall and get up. I cannot. So if you have nothing else to do, go. I don't want you following me."

She still did not understand what game that man was playing.

Dante listened with a furrowed brow.

"That day, I ordered him to be taken care of. I didn't know it would affect you like this. I'm sorry."

"I don't need your apologies," she answered coldly. "I cannot carry the guilt of a rich man."

"Is that why you didn't return to the bar?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

He only wanted to keep hearing her voice.

"Don't worry," he continued. "Those gangsters won't bother you again."

But his body could no longer hold up. Dizzy, he fell to the side onto a pile of scrap. His face turned as pale as paper.

"Do you want me to treat the wound?" Abigail asked, approaching cautiously.

Dante did not answer.

She sighed. "Forget it, suit yourself."

But as she turned, she felt her wrist gripped tightly.

"Alright. I will help you."

Abigail cleaned and bandaged his wound gently.

Between silences, Dante asked her name.

"Abigail," she repeated, her voice barely audible.

In his mind, the name was mixed with another.

Abigail. Orabelle.

Both names spun in his head like an echo that tormented him.

"Are you okay?" Abigail asked, noticing him close his eyes.

He did not reply.

Sweat soaked his brow; he had lost too much blood.

"I will take you to the hospital. But I cannot pay the bill, I will only leave you there," she said, biting her lip.

Although she knew it would be a problem, she lifted him with effort.

Suddenly, a cold, authoritative voice rang from the door.

"What have you done to Dante Hendricks?"