Somewhere in the outskirts of Marseille – 2:14 AM
The air was thick with smoke, and her mouth tasted of blood and rust. Zaria's head pounded as she blinked, trying to focus. Her hands were tied behind her back, ankles bound to the rusted chair that creaked under her weight.
The room was dim, lit only by a flickering bulb swinging from the ceiling like a dying heartbeat. Water dripped somewhere — rhythmic, steady — like a countdown.
She could barely breathe.
A sharp sting laced her ribs where someone had kicked her. Her lip was split. Her curls, usually wild and proud, hung limp with sweat and grime. She didn't recognize this version of herself. The mirror across the room did nothing but reflect pain — and something else.
Fire.
Even now… her eyes still burned with it.
"You're tougher than you look," a voice said.
Zaria looked up, slowly, tasting blood as she smiled.
"Yeah? You should see the other guy," she rasped, her voice broken but defiant.
The man in the shadows chuckled. Leather gloves flexed on his hands as he walked forward. "Still mouthing off? Brave. Stupid… but brave."
She didn't flinch. If this was how it ended, she'd go out flaming.
But then—footsteps. Another door creaked open, and cold silence filled the air. The man in gloves went rigid.
Zaria turned her head slightly, the light catching the fresh bruise on her cheek.
Another figure entered. Tall. Silent. The kind of presence that made air obey. She didn't need to see his face to know who it was.
Ares.
Even bound, half-dead, and one breath away from passing out — she felt it. That unexplainable pull. Like gravity turned sideways.
But something was off.
His eyes — dark, unreadable — didn't move to her right away. Instead, he stared at the man holding her hostage.
"I told you not to touch her," Ares said quietly, voice like steel dipped in ice.
The gloved man scoffed. "She was a liability. She still is."
The silence that followed wasn't empty. It was full of death.
And then — a gunshot.
Zaria flinched. Blood splattered her face. The man dropped at her feet, eyes wide open, lifeless.
Ares lowered the smoking gun, stepped closer, and crouched in front of her. His face finally softened — barely.
She could hardly process what just happened.
"I told you I'd protect you," he said.
Her eyes met his — confused, furious, but alive.
"You also told me not to fall for you."
His jaw clenched. "I was trying to save you."
Zaria coughed. "Too late for that."
In that moment — covered in someone else's blood, ribs aching, wrists raw — she realized: This was never just about danger. Or secrets. Or survival.
This was love.
Twisted. Violent. Real.
And she was already in too deep.