𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 | 𝘙𝘢𝘧𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘮𝘦𝘳𝘰𝘯

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟓𝟏

𝐃𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐧 𝐏𝐢𝐧𝐤 |
𝐋𝐞𝐭'𝐬 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐥𝐞𝐭 𝐢𝐭 𝐠𝐨

RAFE'S POV

I'm on the floor now.

They stopped bothering with the chair two beatings ago. Something about the way I kept sliding off it. I think they got bored of propping me up like a puppet.

I can't feel my hands. I think they're still tied behind my back, but the ache in my shoulders is louder than the ropes now. Every joint feels shattered, every breath is a slow drag of glass through my lungs. My cheek's split open from the last hit, and the blood dried hours ago, crusting down my jawline. The worst part is my mouth—iron and copper and something bitter I can't name. I taste it every time I swallow.

The room stinks. Sweat. Fear. My own blood. I've been living in this stink so long it's a part of me now.

I didn't think I'd die like this.

I thought I'd die in some reckless, stupid way—something fast, heroic, maybe. Not like this. Not on the floor of a concrete room with my face pressed to cold stone and my ribs screaming every time I breathe.

Not without her.

Catalina.

Her name alone almost hurts more than the bruises. I try to picture her—eyes first, because I always start with her eyes. The dark gold, the burn of them, how they narrow when she laughs, or when she's about to do something dangerous. I used to watch her sleep. Not in a creepy way, just... because it calmed me down. Her breath even, her face soft. When she smiled—God, when she smiled—it made the rest of the world fade into background noise. She made life feel worth the chaos.

I promised her I'd stay.

Forever.

I tried. I really fucking tried.

But maybe it was always going to end like this.

Just as my eyes begin to shut—part exhaustion, part surrender—I hear it. The door again. That familiar metallic creak. The heavy boots.

It's him.

He always walks like the hallway belongs to him.

I don't lift my head. No point. I already know the way he moves, the way he smells like cold sweat and gun oil. He's carrying it this time—I can tell by the shift in the air. A gun. Low and casual in his grip like it means nothing.

This is it.

I heard them talking outside yesterday. Said I was a waste of time. A dead end. Said it wasn't worth keeping me alive. I wasn't going to break, and they had no more use for me. Easier to clean up the mess.

I should panic. I should be terrified.

But there's something almost peaceful about the idea of it ending. No more pain. No more waiting.