Page 144 of Eternal

DAMIR

“Look On Down From The Bridge” by Mazzy Star

Present

I ’ve always thought the devil was a man.

Maybe that’s the easiest way to picture it. Men make sense. We want things, power, control, to be feared, to be seen. Every man I’ve ever put down bled out clinging to some idea of himself. Pride. Legacy. Ego. That’s all we are, really, skin stretched over insecurity.

We posture, we bluff, we fight for scraps of meaning.

I know because I’ve done it. Still do, sometimes.

But women… Their strength’s different. Quieter. Meaner. It doesn’t posture. It waits. Watches. Learns where to cut.

They don’t break loudly. They carry things. Bury them. Let the pain ferment into something colder. Smarter. They know how to endure without anyone noticing the cost.

Azra.

She's proof of that. She walked through hell with her mouth shut and her eyes open. She survived things that should’ve hollowed her out. Instead, she built herself from the pieces.

Men break loud. Women break inward. And the ones who survive it? They don’t come back the same. They don’t come back at all. She didn’t. I see it. Clearly.

She’s standing in the middle of it now, the blood, the wreckage, the godless altar. The pastor's body is a heap at her feet. Every guest is dead. The air smells like blood and fire.

And she’s simply... standing there.

I’ve seen her move through blood like it means nothing. I’ve seen her talk circles around men who thought they were in control. And I’ve watched her look at monsters without blinking.

And I’ve fallen in love with her because of it. Not in spite of it.

Her shoulders aren’t set. Her fists aren’t clenched. She’s not triumphant. She looks…lost.

She looks... confused.

Like whatever truth she found here wasn’t the one she expected.

I waited at the back of the room, watching. Blood and broken bodies everywhere. I stepped over them without hesitation. There she was, covered in blood, eyes distant but burning.

The pastor was dead. The place was finally quiet.

She should be done. Should look like she won.

But she looked... sad, angry, tired. Like everything she believed in, slipped through her fingers.

I moved closer, voice low. “What did he say?”

She didn’t answer right away, she looked around like nothing made sense anymore.

Then she said, “Damir... I think… I think I was wrong.”

I blinked, trying to follow her. “What do you mean?”

She shook her head, voice shaking too. “The journal... the one they gave me… I think it wasn't hers. Not entirely."

I didn’t know what to say. I didn't want to say the wrong thing. So I stayed with her silence for a moment.

Then I took her hand, rough and warm. “Hey. Look at me.” She met my eyes, confused and broken. “We get the kids out of here first,” I said. “Then I’m taking you back home. We’ll deal with that journal later, okay? We’ll figure it out.”

Her eyes didn’t focus. They were empty, like she was drowning in something deeper than the blood on her skin. Then she fell to her knees harder. I crouched down beside her, reached out, and took her face in my hands. “Hey, baby,” I said, low and firm. “Eyes on me. Focus on me .”

She blinked slowly, like waking from a bad dream.

“I promise, we’ll find out everything. But right now, we save those kids. They need us.”

She nodded, barely.

We moved fast. I led her past the dark side rooms. I watched her as we crossed the threshold into that hallway, a line of doors hiding who knows how many lives.

She was strong, too strong for what she’d been through, but even now, her hands shook slightly.

Blood still stained her skin, but it wasn’t just exhaustion, it was something deeper.

Anger. Rage. And beneath that, something fragile, like she was breaking all over again.

Kids. Children, innocent, locked behind those doors, dressed in white like they were waiting to be sold. And she knew. She knew what it meant, and it tore her apart. I could see it in her eyes, madness tangled with confusion, like she wanted to rip everything down but didn’t know where to start.

She stopped at the first door, opened it slowly. The room was cold, but the fear inside burned hotter than any flame. A dozen kids sat there, silent, eyes large and dark and terrified.

White clothes, clean faces, but empty. Broken.

One little girl caught Azra's eye, a tiny thing with tangled blond hair and trembling hands. She whispered softly, “You have pretty eyes. Are you a princess?”

Azra’s face softened, she knelt down, brushing a stray lock of hair behind the girl’s ear. “No I’m not,” she said quietly, “But I’m here to make sure you get out of here. You’re going to be free.”

The girl blinked, unsure. “Free?”

Azra smiled, a small, painful thing. “Yeah. Free.”

I watched her, this woman who’d bathed in blood, who’d broken so many, and yet with this child, she was something else entirely. Tender. Human . And it made my chest ache.

She turned to me, eyes empty, devastated. “They don’t deserve this,” she said. “None of them.”

I nodded. “They don’t.”

We moved from room to room, opening doors, pairing kids up, older ones helping the younger, whispering reassurances in voices too soft for this place. I had to cover the eyes of one boy as we passed a pile of bodies in the hallway.

The stench was unbearable, but the boy’s eyes were sharper than mine, he knew what it meant. I whispered, “Keep your eyes closed. We’re getting you out.”

His small hand found mine, gripping tight.

Azra stayed close beside me. Each child she touched, each soft word she gave, chipped away at the walls of protection she carried. I could see the weight of it all pressing on her, making her smaller even as she fought to be their protector.

She looked lost at times, like the rage that fueled her was slipping through her fingers, leaving a hollow where hope should be. And I wanted to hold her, tell her it was going to be okay, that she didn’t have to carry this alone. But there wasn’t time, not yet.

“We get the kids out first,” I said quietly. “Then you tell me everything.”

She nodded, barely able to meet my eyes. “I will.”

One little boy tugged at her sleeve. “Will you stay with us?”

She smiled, wiping a tear she didn’t know she was shedding. “I’m not going anywhere.”

When we finally pushed open the church’s main doors, the cold night air rushed in. The kids spilled out, some crying quietly, others clutching at us like we were the only solid thing left in a world gone mad.

Azra moved through the circle of children, her voice was soft without even trying. “Sit close, hold hands tight. Don’t look back, not yet. We’re going to take care of you, okay? You’re safe now.”

I stood back, watching her carefully.

The rage, the fire in her, they all softened whenever she was near these kids, like something deep inside her stirred, something gentle and fierce all at once.

She could have been the best mom. The kind of mom who fights tooth and nail to protect her children, who loves without holding back.

But she never had that chance.

The past had stolen it from her.

The abuse, the scars, it left her broken in ways no one could see. I knew it because I saw the shadows behind her eyes, the way she clenched her fists when no one was looking.

A little girl slipped away from the circle and grabbed my pant leg, her small voice trembling. “Where are we going now? The man inside said we’d have a new home tonight.”

I bent down, letting my hand rest on her messy hair. Anger flared hot in my chest, knowing exactly what that pastor had meant. But right now, this little girl needed more than my fury.

“You’re going home tonight, honey,” I said, voice rough but sure. “I promise you that.”

She looked up, her fear a raw thing in her eyes, but she nodded slowly, trusting.

Azra watched from the edge of the group, exhaustion and pain flickering across her face, but she stood tall.

I stood back, watching Azra among the kids. Blood soaked her once-white dress, but somehow, some impossible way, she still looked like a fallen angel.

Her smile, soft and hesitant, lit up her face when a little boy shyly reached for her hand.

There she was, the woman I loved in secret and quietly. Fierce and broken, violent and gentle, all at once.

When she finally came back to me, her eyes dark and tired, she whispered, “We can call the authorities. But... I don’t trust them. Not here. They’re also part of this mess. I don’t know what to do.”

She’d just killed every single person inside that church. The cops could come, and we’d be the ones in the spotlight. Even if we saved the kids, the system here was corrupt enough to bury it all, or worse.

Azra sank onto the grass, exhaustion finally hitting her.

Blood still stained her dress, but her hands trembled as she pulled out her phone. I stayed close, watching her.

“My mom…” she said quietly, voice breaking. “She used to work for an organization. They fought cases like this, abuse, trafficking, exploitation. She was their lawyer, that’s how all this started for her. Maybe they can help us now.”

I nodded.

She tapped through her contacts and found the number like she always kept it there for some reason. Her fingers hesitated a second before she pressed call.

The line clicked. A calm voice answered.

“Safe Passage Anti-Trafficking Unit. How can we help?”

Azra’s voice was calm, careful. “This is... a concerned citizen. We found a group of children, about twenty, outside an old church in Las Vegas. They’re safe now but need immediate help. Medical attention, shelter, transportation. Lots of vehicles. It’s urgent.”

There was a pause. “Can you give us the location?”

She gave the address, keeping her tone calm.

“We’re dispatching a team immediately,” the voice said. “Stay with the children and keep them calm until we arrive.”

Azra hung up and looked at me, eyes dark but resolute. “They’ll come. We have to hold on until then.”

I put my arm around her, and exhaled.

After what felt like an eternity, the distant rumble of engines broke the wait. Headlights appeared. The cars rolled slowly toward us, vans, SUVs. Some of the kids, worn out and shaking, had already curled up on the grass, waiting.

Azra knelt beside a small girl whose white dress was stained with dirt and fear. The child’s lashes fluttered, but she didn’t wake. Azra’s fingers gently brushed a strand of hair away from her cheek, her touch careful, almost scared. Then, she looked up at me, eyes heavy but steady.

“At least we saved more tonight,” she said quietly.

“You did that. I’m only trying to keep up.”

Her lips twitched into a tired smile.

“Let’s get up, but stay far enough away. We can watch, but not be seen. Not now.”

I nodded, took her hand, and together we helped the kids sit up, softly whispering reassurances.

“Hey, listen to me. People are coming to help you now. They’ll get you food, clothes, and doctors. You’re safe here. We’re staying right with you.”

A tiny boy, no older than six, suddenly shuffled forward. His bare feet were dirty, and his eyes wide with something between hope and disbelief. He reached out and grabbed the hem of Azra’s blood-stained dress, then tugged gently on her pant leg.

“Where are we going?”

Azra knelt down slowly, careful not to startle him. She brushed a tangled lock of hair from his forehead, her fingers trembling a little. On his wrist, a worn bracelet with a tiny silver star caught the moonlight.

“Somewhere safe,” she said softly, locking eyes with him. “You don’t have to be scared anymore.”

He blinked, then shyly held up his wrist. “Thank you, ma’am.”

Azra’s eyes welled up. She pulled him close into a gentle hug, holding him like she wished she could hold away every nightmare he’d ever known.

The boy’s lips twitched into a small smile. “Are we superheroes now?”

Azra’s smile grew warmer. “Yeah. Superheroes with a secret mission.” Another child giggled nearby. “But shh,” Azra whispered, leaning close. “We can’t let anyone know we’re here. It’s our secret game. We’re the heroes, but we can’t be famous.”

The kids nodded, some giggling, some squeezing each other’s hands tightly.

“Promise you won’t tell anyone, okay?” she added softly.

“Promise!” they all said together.

We eased away from the group, staying out of sight behind a cluster of thick desert bushes.

From here, we had a clear view of the church’s garden, now alive with urgent activity.

Men and women in uniforms, rescue workers, medical staff, social services, they all fanned out across the grounds, gently gathering the children, handing out blankets and water.

I slid my arm around Azra’s shoulders, pulling her close. Her body was trembling with fatigue and something deeper, grief, anger, maybe a flicker of hope.

“Okay,” I murmured, “Let’s go home. You’ve done more than enough tonight. Now I’m taking care of you.”