Crimson Ties

Hannah was jolted awake by a deafening noise, a loud crash followed by shouting that echoed through the room. The sound was brutal, harsh—like something heavy had just been thrown across the floor. Her heart raced, and her eyes snapped open.

For a moment, she was disoriented. The world around her was a blur. Then, the loud shouts broke through the haze.

"Get off me!" a voice yelled, followed by the sickening thud of a punch landing. "Is that all you got?"

Hannah's heart skipped a beat. She lay there, her mind sluggishly trying to catch up with the present. For a second, she wasn't sure where she was. Then it hit her. The dream. The warmth of her father's encouragement, the oppressive weight of her mother's disappointment—those memories were nothing but fading echoes now.

She blinked hard, shaking the remnants of the dream away. No. It wasn't a dream.

She was still in that grim, cold place. Her wrists burned with the ropes that bound them, and she felt the dampness of the air settling into her bones. She'd been kidnapped. Panic flooded her chest as she tried to sit up, the reality crashing in.

Her breath caught. Had it been days? Hours? The isolation, the fear—it was overwhelming.

The noise from outside grew louder again, interrupted by a grunt of pain. "Not so fast, you bastard!" The voice was strained, yet defiant, as if the speaker was putting everything into the fight.

Then there was the deep, growling voice of the muscular guy. "You think you can stop me? I'll crush you."

Hannah shuddered. Was the person fighting for her? Or was this just some twisted game? She wasn't sure, but she could feel the heat of the struggle in the air.

She strained her ears, trying to make sense of it, but the sounds kept shifting. A grunt. Another thud. A loud smack—flesh against flesh. Then silence. The fight wasn't over.

Her body tensed as she listened closely. The sounds of struggle became faint, like the fight was moving away from her. The tension in her gut twisted. Why did it sound like they were retreating? Was someone backing down, or just taking a break?

She struggled to focus, her mind racing.

"You're not getting away," came the defiant voice, sounding winded but still full of fight. "I'm not done yet."

The muscular guy growled, his voice laced with anger. "You'll regret this."

Hannah closed her eyes, breathing slowly, trying to calm her rattled nerves. The fight grew quieter. Her heartbeat slowed as the noise faded into the distance.

What the hell had just happened? Her head spun as she wondered what was going on outside. Had the fight ended? Or had something else happened? She couldn't be sure, but the air felt different now. More still, but somehow thicker—like everything was about to change.

Her mind kept running in circles, and the silence weighed heavy on her. Was this her chance? Could she move? Could she escape? She couldn't hear anything else, nothing except the echo of her own thoughts.

Maybe... maybe the fight had ended. Maybe the man had been taken down. She felt a flicker of hope, then quickly shut it down. Hope didn't help her now. She needed to think.

The silence shattered with a deafening crash. The wooden door, once sturdy, exploded into splinters, pieces flying in all directions. The sound of the impact was like thunder, and before she could process what happened, the muscular man who had been fighting moments ago was thrown into the room like a ragdoll.

His body hit the floor with a sickening thud. Blood poured from his face, staining the cracked tiles beneath him. His features were barely recognizable—swollen, bloodied, and his teeth scattered across the floor like broken pearls. He lay unconscious, sprawled out in a heap, breathing raggedly, his chest heaving with each shallow breath.

Hannah's heart slammed against her ribcage. She instinctively squeezed her eyes shut, hands flying up to shield her face, trying to block out the blinding light that filled the doorway. It was too much—too sudden, too violent. Her pulse hammered in her ears, drowning out everything else for a moment.

When the light finally dimmed, she dared to peek through her fingers, her breath hitching in her throat.

There he stood, framed in the jagged remnants of the door. A figure bathed in the golden light that poured in from behind him, his form almost glowing. He was tall—towering—and his presence filled the room like an overwhelming force of nature. His silhouette seemed to shimmer, every movement exuding power, confidence, and something almost... divine.

The man wiped a small trail of blood from the corner of his mouth, a flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. The blood didn't seem to bother him; it was almost like it added to his godlike aura, a testament to his strength and control. He stood there, still and unshakable, a living statue in the doorway. His eyes, sharp and piercing, locked onto Hannah's with an intensity that made her breath catch in her throat. There was no fear in them. Just cold certainty.

Hannah felt a rush of awe, mixed with terror. She couldn't look away. He was like some holy figure, standing victorious in the aftermath of battle, untouched by the chaos he'd left behind. There was something in his gaze—something that felt otherworldly, as if he were above everything, above everyone in the room.

The silence hung thick between them, heavy and taut, like the calm before a storm.

Hannah's pulse raced. Her body tensed instinctively, but she couldn't tear her eyes away from him. This man—this godlike presence—had just single-handedly decimated the one who had been tormenting her. He was untouchable. He was... everything.

The room felt smaller, suffocating in his overwhelming presence, and yet... there was something comforting in it too. Like maybe, just maybe, she wasn't as alone as she thought.

And then, he spoke, his voice deep and smooth, cutting through the tense silence.

"Come on," he said, softer this time, but no less firm. "We don't have much time."

Hannah didn't move at first, still frozen under the intensity of his presence. Her heart pounded in her chest, a mix of fear and something she couldn't quite place. His eyes softened slightly, almost like he was waiting for her to find her strength. She felt a strange pull, something beyond just fear, something that made her want to listen.

But all she could do was stare at him, unsure whether it was the terror or the strange sense of security in his presence that held her still.

Before Hannah could fully process what was happening, she felt strong arms slip beneath her, lifting her effortlessly from the cold floor. Her body stiffened in surprise, but then the warmth and steadiness of his hold surrounded her, and she couldn't help but flush. It was like a fairy tale—she was the helpless princess, and he was the hero coming to her rescue. Her heart beat faster, both from the overwhelming situation and the unexpected rush of comfort she felt in his grip.

"You alright?" His voice was low, gentle but steady, as if he had done this a thousand times. There was no panic, no urgency in him—just calm control.

Hannah's face turned hot, her heart fluttering in her chest. "I... I think so," she stammered, still dazed and embarrassed by the situation. She blinked a few times, her hands instinctively gripping his blood stained as if to steady herself.

He seemed to sense her uncertainty, his grip firm but reassuring as he adjusted her in his arms. "What's your name?" he asked, his tone softened just enough to let her know he wasn't just asking out of necessity.

The question hung in the air, and for a moment, it felt like everything had slowed down. She felt silly for the flush creeping up her neck, but something in his gaze made her feel like it wasn't the worst thing to happen in this chaotic moment. "Hannah," she said, her voice barely a whisper.

Hannah shifted slightly, her face half-hidden beneath the messy strands of her chestnut hair, which fell in waves down to her waist, tangled and disheveled from the ordeal. Her pale skin bore smudges of dirt, accentuating the faint shadows under her wide, expressive hazel eyes. Usually warm and curious, her gaze was now dulled by exhaustion, though a glimmer of vulnerability flickered in their depths.

The academy uniform she wore—a neatly tailored blazer and pleated skirt—was far from its usual pristine state. The fabric was wrinkled and scuffed, the edges of her skirt frayed slightly, as though it had snagged during the chaos. Despite the uniform's once-formal appearance, it clung awkwardly now, creased and stained in places.

Even in her disheveled state, there was a quiet grace about her, a determination buried beneath the fear and uncertainty.

His eyes flickered, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his lips, though it didn't reach the depths of his intense stare. "Hannah Kensington," he repeated softly, as if testing the name, as if the simple act of knowing her made this whole bizarre situation seem just a little bit more real.