Page 95 of Scarred Bratva King

That’s when I hear it—a faint whimper, barely audible over the distant hum of machinery. I freeze, my grip tightening on the rifle. The sound comes again, weak and broken. A plea.

I approach cautiously, the noise guiding me to a half-open door at the end of the hall. Peering inside, I see something in the darkness.

A woman, tied to a chair in the center of the room. Her head hangs low, her dark hair matted with blood.

Bruises bloom across her face, and her torn clothes hang off her frame like rags. Her wrists are raw from the ropes binding her, and her shallow breaths rasp in the silence.

There aren’t supposed to be any victims left in here. Why did she get left behind?

For a moment, the world narrows to just her. Her pain is a palpable thing, suffocating the air. She lifts her head slightly, her swollen eyes locking onto mine in the gloom. There’s no hope in her gaze, just a desperate plea for this to end—one way or another.

I curse under my breath, stepping inside. The room smells of sweat and despair. My heart pounds as I scan the corners, ensuring we’re alone. For now.

My first instinct is to turn away, to keep moving. Every second I linger here is a second closer to death.

But something roots me to the spot, a gnawing sense of responsibility clawing at my chest. She’s too broken to run, too weak to fight. If I leave her behind, I’m signing her death warrant.

I crouch in front of her, my voice low. “Who did this to you?”

Her lips tremble, but no sound comes out. Her head tilts ever so slightly toward the door, her eyes wide with fear.

I follow her gaze and freeze. Voices echoing down the hallway, growing louder. My stomach clenches as I glance between her and the door.

I don’t have time for this.

“Shit.” I stand, pacing a few steps as my mind races. My options are clear. If I cut her loose, I’ll have to carry her out, slowing myself down and making escape practically impossible. If I leave her, I can definitely get out alive.

My eyes dart back to her, taking in her broken form, the faint tremble in her hands, the silent scream in her gaze.

The voices are closer now. I glance at the door, then back at her. Every instinct screams at me to walk away. But something deeper, something I can’t quite name, keeps me rooted to the spot.

The woman’s eyes flutter closed, her strength slipping away with each second. I tighten my grip on the rifle, my jaw clenched.

Then she speaks and what she says chills my blood. It’s only one word but there’s no way I mishear it.

The word is, “Ivan.”