There's so much blood on your hands that you can't even see your skin beneath it. You're pressing hard on the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding, but you can feel him slipping away. It's in his eyes—the way they're losing focus, the way his breath comes in shallow gasps.

You bite your bottom lip so hard it bleeds as you glance up at the chaos around you. Your parents are screaming at his, their voices sharp and venomous, fists flying, accusations hurled. No one is helping. No one cares—not about him, not about you. Just because you're from rival families. Just because they caught you and him together, tangled in each other's arms in an intimate moment.

And now he's lying here, stabbed by your own blood, while his family retaliates against yours.

Francis's hand trembles as it reaches for yours, his grip weak but insistent. "Baby..." he whispers, his voice strained and broken. His lips quiver as he fights against the pain. "I... love..." He winces, his words cut off by a sharp gasp as his body spasms.