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No knock.No warning.Just the frame giving out and three men stepping in, as if they knew where the blood would land.As though the house was theirs and we were the mess they’d come to clean up.

Vance moved first, but it was useless.He lunged, but the second man took out his knee and dropped him like a pulled thread.The closest one caught him across the face, dropping him hard.The knife hit the floor.So did he.

They didn’t pause.

He kicked him in the ribs.Then again.The sound was worse than the impact—dull and final, like something splitting that wouldn’t knit right again.I sat up too fast, sheet slipping, and said the only word I could think of.

“Stop.”

They didn’t.

A hand grabbed me before I could stand.Another yanked the sheet away, like it offended him.My feet hit the tile.I tried to catch myself.Too slow.A hand cracked across my cheek and spun me toward the ground.

I landed on one knee, then both.

And then he came in.

He looked fresh.Like he’d showered.Like someone had driven him here and told him to smile.

Not a speck of surprise in his expression.He didn’t speak.Just looked at me, then nodded once.That was all it took.

The others didn’t ask questions.They just started in.

It was methodical.One to the ribs.One to the face.A kick to my gut that made everything clench and twist.I doubled forward and spat blood onto the floor.

I could hear Vance shifting behind me—trying to get up.A grunt, a sharp exhale, the scuff of shoes.And then nothing.They held him down.

The next hit caught me in the temple, and light burst behind my eyes.Blood tracked down my cheek.

My vision blurred—not from the hit, but from the tear.They split my eyelid clean, like paper.Every blink came back red.

They kept going.

There’s a point where your body stops trying to protect itself.Not from surrender.From strategy.You play dead.You fold.You make them work harder to find the fight.

They took turns.Fists.Boots.Nothing creative.Just enough to leave a message.And they didn’t speak—not to me, not to each other.

I was slumped on my side when he finally said something.

“Watch the face.”He glanced at Vance.“Or don’t.”

They didn’t.

Until one of them grabbed my chin and twisted my head toward Robert.

“That's enough,” he said.

It was.For now.

I opened my eyes, barely, and found Vance watching.His face was bruised.Bleeding.I doubt he’d looked away once.

They dragged me out without a word.Bare feet skidding against tile.Skin split and stinging.Blood salty in my mouth.

No goodbye.No instructions.

Just fingers curled in my hair and the sound of Vance breathing like he’d never forgive himself.

I knew exactly where we were going.I just didn’t know how long I’d survive it.There were only two options: punishment or erasure.And he’d already taken his pick.