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"And that," I snarl, leaning close enough to see the tears streaming down his face, "is for every fucking second you thought she was yours."

He's coughing blood now, red bubbling at the corners of his mouth as he tries to speak.

"You can't fix her," he chokes out, blood spilling over his lips. "She's... broken now."

I crouch beside him, close enough that he can't miss a single word.

"She doesn't need fixing," I whisper, my voice almost gentle in its certainty. "She needs to be loved. Truly, completely, without the need to own her. And I'm the only man alive who knows how."

I reach into my pocket and pull it free—burgundy ribbon, still warm from her skin. His last twisted act of possession. His version of a collar.

He tries to move, fear evident in his eyes as I loop the ribbon around his neck—tight, snug, just like he fastened it around her. My fingers knot it with precision, pulling until the velvet digs into hisskin.

"No," his voice hoarse from the pain of his injuries.

"A gift returned," I whisper, letting the ends hang like a noose.

Only then do I lift the blade again and finish it the way he deserves. I drag the knife across his neck—slow, clean, precise. Just as I've been trained. Just as I've planned since the moment I found her missing.

He gurgles, eyes wide with disbelief. His body twitches, the final involuntary spasms of a system shutting down. The ribbon darkens as it absorbs his blood—his sins soaking into the threads, turning his legacy to rot.

And finally—he goes still.

I stay there.

Kneeling in his blood.

For just a second longer.

Then I reach down, grabbing him by the jaw, lifting his face to mine one last time.

"Touch her again," I whisper to dead ears. "I fucking dare you."

I drop his head, letting it thud against the concrete like the worthless thing it is.

I wipe the blade clean on his ruined suit.

Then I rise, the blood soaking into my clothes, my skin, beneath my fingernails. I don't care. All that matters now is her.

I turn away from Christopher's body without a backward glance. He doesn't deserve even that much acknowledgment. He's nothing now. Less than nothing.

I cross the warehouse floor with measured steps, returning to where Luna still hangs, arms stretched painfully above her head. Her eyes follow me—still distant, still protected by whatever sanctuary her mind has created, but aware.

"It's over," I tell her, my voice gentler than I thought possible after what I've just done. "He'll never hurt you again."

I reach up, using the knife to cut through the ropes binding her wrists. I catch her as she falls, supporting her weight against my chest. Her body is cold, trembling slightly against mine as her arms finally lower after being suspended for so long.

"I've got you," I murmur, one hand cradling the back of her head. "You're safe now."

She doesn't speak. Doesn't need to. I can feel her heartbeat against my chest, the steady rhythm of survival, of endurance.

I slip off my suit jacket, the fabric still warm from my body, and wrap it around her shoulders, covering the tattered remains of her dress. She's shivering now, delayed shock setting in as the adrenaline begins to fade.

"We're leaving," I tell her, my voice low and steady. "We're going home."

I lift her into my arms, cradling her against my chest, one arm beneath her knees, the other supporting her back. She feels impossibly light, her head resting against my shoulder as I carry her through the darkness toward the exit.

The night air hits us as we emerge from the warehouse, crisp and clean compared to the stale, blood-soaked atmosphere inside. I tighten my grip, keeping her close against the chill, and walk steadily toward where my car waits.