Chapter 2

Gustavo raised the hydraulic cutters, the cold metal blade touching the skin on the inside of my wrist.

I hissed—not from pain, but from the extreme cold that made my scalp tingle.

His hand was steady.

A fire captain's hand had held up collapsed beams in burning buildings, had single-handedly pulled jumpers from seventeenth-floor window ledges.

It never shook.

But I could see the muscles in his jaw clenched tight.

His masseter muscles pulsing, like he was about to shatter his teeth.

"I asked you a question."

His voice pressed down from above, heavy as lead.

"Did you use protection."

My brain instantly crashed.

What? What protection? What was he talking about?

I opened my mouth, and in my panic, without thinking, blurted out two words:

"Didn't."

I meant the handcuffs didn't have a spare key.

But those two words, to Gustavo's ears, clearly meant something else entirely.

His whole body jerked like he'd been electrocuted, his right hand gripping the hydraulic cutters suddenly tightening.

The veins on the back of his hand bulged one by one, like snakes crawling under his skin.

Click. The sound of metal breaking, crisp and vicious—the handcuff chain snapped.

The moment the chain broke, a flying metal fragment cut across the back of Gustavo's hand.

A gash immediately opened, blood flowing down between his fingers, dripping onto my white sheets.

One drop, two drops, three drops—shocking to see.

"Your hand—"

"Don't worry about it."

He threw the hydraulic cutters on the floor with a dull thud.

My newly freed hands immediately grabbed the blanket, wrapping myself from feet to chin, wishing I could bundle myself into a dumpling.

"You can leave now."

My voice was shaking terribly, but I tried to maintain the last shred of dignity.

"Thank you, Captain Gustavo, for responding. Sorry for the trouble, goodbye."

Gustavo didn't move.

He stood up, turned his back to me, and began unbuckling his firefighting combat gear.

One buckle, two buckles, three buckles.

The heavy flame-retardant jacket slid from his shoulders, revealing the sweat-soaked black compression shirt underneath.

The fabric clung tightly to him, outlining every muscle on his back.

My throat tightened. I looked away.

The next second, I saw Gustavo grab the chair by the bedroom door—

With a bang, he jammed it against the door.

Then he turned around, sat down heavily on the chair, legs spread, elbows on his knees.

His injured right hand hung down, still dripping blood.

He didn't even glance at it.

He just raised his head, staring at me with those bloodshot eyes.

"I need to write an incident report."

He said. His voice cold as poison:

"Ares, I need you to cooperate."

"Give me a detailed account of what happened."

"When it started, how long it lasted, when the other person left."

"Speak clearly."

I gripped the blanket tightly, my nails digging into my palms.

He was settling personal scores. Using the most legitimate excuse to inflict the most extreme humiliation on me.

Three years. This was the hatred he'd been holding for three years.

Blood flowed from the back of his hand to his fingertips, then dripped from his fingertips onto my bedroom floor.

He didn't wipe it, didn't bandage it, didn't even furrow his brow—as if it was someone else's hand.

As if all his attention, all his hatred, all his madness, was focused on me.

I couldn't take it anymore.

"What's wrong with you, Gustavo!"

I sprang up from the bed, wrapped in the blanket, and shouted at him:

"There's no man! No one! Just leave!"

"This is my house! What right do you have to stay here!"

Gustavo squinted slightly at my outburst, but he didn't move.

His lips even curved into a smile so cold it chilled to the bone.

"No one?"

"So you're playing with handcuffs by yourself?"

"Tying yourself up?"

"Dressed like that to tie yourself up?"

Each rhetorical question was like a hammer pounding on my skull.

I stood there open-mouthed, unable to say a word.

Because—everything he said was true.