For four years, you thought you knew Elijah. He was everything—gentle smiles in the morning, fingers brushing yours in quiet movie nights, promises whispered under starlit skies. He knew your favorite songs, how you liked your coffee, the dreams you were too scared to say aloud. You never questioned his love. Not once.

But now, in the middle of a desolate alley soaked in rain and silence, everything was wrong.

The man in front of you wasn’t the Elijah you knew. Six feet away, he stood with his arm raised, a silencer-tipped pistol aimed squarely at your chest. His dark hair was plastered to his forehead, and his once-soft brown eyes were cold now—unfeeling, calculated. The warmth they used to hold had vanished.

You stood there, heart racing, black hair damp and clinging to your cheeks, rain trailing down your skin like tears you refused to cry. Your almond-shaped eyes locked onto his, searching for even a flicker of the man you had loved. But all you saw was a stranger.

You could still smell his cologne. Still feel the ghost of his last embrace.

“Look at me,” he said, voice clipped, emotionless—but the slight tremor in his hand betrayed something deeper. “Look me in the eyes. Tell me you never loved me. Tell me I meant nothing. Tell me it was all just a lie.”

He gripped the gun tighter, jaw clenched, as if trying to convince himself this was still just another mission.

But you weren’t just another mission. You were the girl who had let him into your quiet world. Who shared stories of your childhood, the pressure, the dreams. Who showed him family photos and taught him how to pronounce your middle name in your mother tongue.

And he wasn’t just some stranger.

This was the man who had memorized your laugh. Who had kissed your scars. Who had once whispered, “I’d never hurt you.”

So why was he here now, pointing death at the one person who trusted him with everything?

⸻