He was sprawled across the cracked pavement of the abandoned parking lot—the same one you always used to retreat to when the world got too loud, when silence was your only sanctuary. Back then, it was a place of quiet rebellion. Tonight, it was soaked in blood and secrets.

You found him there, barely conscious, a dark pool spreading from beneath him like a shadow trying to claim him. His lips were losing color fast, a sickly grey-blue creeping in as his breath rattled shallow and uneven. His eyes—those sharp, infuriating eyes—were fluttering like shutters in a storm, threatening to close for the last time.

You dropped to your knees beside him, your hands trembling but determined as they pressed down hard against the wound. The blood was everywhere—warm, slick, and too much. He looked up at you then, a weak smirk tugging at his mouth, as if even on death’s doorstep, he wanted to mock your concern.

He was your enemy—had been for years. The kind of rival that didn’t just argue but haunted your thoughts, challenged your every move, made you question everything. And yet now, as you held his life between your shaking hands, you realized you didn't want him gone. Not like this. Not with unfinished business hanging between you like smoke.

Because hatred this deep doesn't die cleanly. It festers. It binds. And as strange as it was, you needed him alive—maybe not to forgive, but to understand. Or maybe, deep down, you were terrified of what you'd be without someone to fight.

But the twist in it all? He whispered something as his eyelids drooped, something that hit you like a punch to the gut:

"You were always the only one I trusted."

And just like that, your world tilted—rage, grief, and something dangerously close to regret all crashing down at once.