Broken Hands

123. It shouldn't have ended like this!

It was dark.

Not the kind of darkness that welcomed sleep, but the suffocating kind—the kind that pressed down like a weight, thick and inescapable.

The air was still. Unnaturally so, as if they were locked inside some sealed box. But every now and then, the faint jerking beneath Russell told him otherwise—tires rolling over loose gravel, the occasional bump sending a dull thud through the walls.

He shifted, his head pounding, his body stiff. Something coarse and scratchy was covering his face. A bag.

His hands were bound behind his back, the rope digging into his wrists. He groaned softly, blinking against the darkness, trying to shake the haze from his mind.

Where the hell were they?

A memory surged forward—the last thing he remembered before blacking out.

Grayson.

The way he had looked when he handed him the phone, barely holding himself up, shaking from exhaustion, his breath shallow.

Russell's stomach twisted.

"Gray?" He whispered into the darkness. "Grayson?"

Nothing.

His chest tightened.

Grayson had been really hurt. And now—Now, Russell didn't even know where he was.

Panic gnawed at him, cold and merciless.

He tugged against the rope, testing it. It wasn't tight. Sweat slicked his skin, making it easier to work his wrists against the restraints, twisting and pulling until—

Pop.

The rope gave way as his hand shot out.

Russell exhaled sharply, yanking the bag off his head.

A dim, flickering light leaked through a crack near the back doors of the van, casting eerie streaks against the metal walls. His vision adjusted, and then—

His breath hitched.

Grayson was there.

Slumped beside him, unmoving. At the far end was another figure also knocked out.

Russell's heart lurched as he scrambled toward Grayson, hands shaking as he ripped the restraints off his cousin's wrists.

"Gray?" His voice wavered. He tapped Grayson's cheek, gentle at first, then harder. "Come on, wake up. Stay with me, please."

Grayson's body was limp, his skin burning under Russell's touch.

He was barely breathing.

Russell swallowed hard, his throat tightening. God, please.

"Don't do this, Gray," he whispered. His fingers pressed against Grayson's neck, searching for a pulse—weak, too weak.

Tears stung his eyes.

Grayson wasn't just hurt. He was dying.

Russell's hands frantically searched him over, patting down his pockets, desperate for the device. They needed a way out. They needed to call for help.

Then—A small, broken voice.

"Russell?"

Russell froze.

His head snapped down, eyes locking onto Grayson's. His cousin's lids barely fluttered open, his gaze glassy, and unfocused.

Relief washed through Russell cool breeze.