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I stood on the precipice, the edge of the main house. It was now dark outside, and the wind had picked up again. I had helped guests inside before the rain started and attended to people’s wounds. I counted nine people in total that had been shot, and luckily, no one fatally. Fortunately, Marcus Cole was not a very good shot, or maybe he didn’t really want to kill anyone, just hurt people in his act of rage. No matter what, he was still very dangerous and still out there somewhere. I called for help, and paramedics and police were on their way. Meanwhile, I needed to find out where Marcus was. We were like sitting ducks right now. I told Olivia to remain with the wounded and the rest of the guests, then ventured outside.

I arrived at the rocks down the beach, breath hitching, and my heart thudding against my ribs as if it were trying to escape.

"Marcus!" My voice cut through the howling wind.

I spotted him then, a lone figure etched against the dark sky, inches from oblivion. With his back to me, he stood defiantly at the edge of the precipice, shoulders hunched—a man burdened and on the brink. He was holding the gun, the barrel pressed against his temple.

"Marcus, don’t do this," I called, firm but laced with concern. I couldn't let him become another casualty.

"Go away."

His words whipped back at me, almost lost in the wind.

"Talk to me. That's all I'm asking." My feet moved over the slick ground, cautious yet determined. Each of my senses was sharpened by the perilous dance of negotiation.

"There’s nothing left to say," his voice strained, a razor's edge of despair cutting through.

He pivoted on his heels, the turmoil in his gaze a whirlpool of raw emotion. Anger and pain clashed.

"Marcus," I murmured, inching closer, feet finding purchase on the uncertain ground. "You've heard a thousand lies, felt a thousand letdowns. But you've got to know I'm not one of them."

"Easy for you to say." His voice, jagged with bitterness, cut through the wind's howl.

"Look at me," I insisted. "I see you, Marcus. Not the case number, not the headlines—just you. The kid who wanted more than the hand he was dealt."

"That kid's long gone," he spat, but his eyes wavered—searching mine. The gun in his hand was shaking.

"Then talk to me about the man standing here now," I pressed on, maintaining eye contact like it was our lifeline. "The one who survived when everything tried to break him."

"Survived?" He scoffed—a hollow sound. "You call this surviving? I just shot a bunch of people."

"Don’t give up," I said, feeling the precarious balance between us.

"It ends here. It’s for the best. Maybe it's what I deserve…."

"Stop." I reached out, not touching, just offering. "Don't you dare believe that. You deserve the truth. A chance."

"Chance…." His word lingered, a plea disguised as defiance.

"Right here, right now, Marcus. Take it."

The first heavy drops hit, fat and cold. The sky above Paradise Key Private Resort opened above us as yet another thunderstorm rolled in. The wind clawed at my jacket, flapping the fabric like a loose sail. I planted my feet on the slick stone, each step a gamble.

"Marcus!" My voice barely crested the growing roar of wind. "Think about what you're doing!"

"Thinking is all I've done," he yelled back, water streaming down his face, indistinguishable from tears.

"Violence won't bring Isla back," I said, advancing with care, feeling the rain turn the ground to soap beneath me. "It won't clear your name."

"Clear my name?" His laugh was a sharp crack, almost lost in the thunder. "And what? Go back to nothing?"

"Nothing can become something." I kept moving. "But only if you're alive to see it through."

"Alive…." He turned slightly, eyes wild, searching mine.

"Listen to me, Marcus." Rain plastered my hair to my scalp, and streams of water coursed down my back. "Isla wouldn't want this for you."

"You didn't know her!" he shot back, but his voice cracked, a fissure in his resolve.

"Then tell me," I urged. "Tell me who she was, what she stood for. Honor her memory the right way."

He paused. Tension knotted his brow, loosening and tightening as waves of indecision crashed over his features.

"Is this it?" I shouted over the wind's roar. "The end you pictured?"

His lips moved silently, wrestling with unseen ghosts. For a heartbeat, the hopeful boy peeked through the veil of the hardened man before me. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a note, and handed it to me.

“Read this when I’m gone.”

"Marcus." My plea was raw.

Then, his face became set like stone. "No more words!" he spat, body coiling like a spring.

"Wait!"

I yelled.

But it was too late.

With a reckless energy, he pulled the trigger. Panic surged through me—a jolt of electricity.

"Marcus, no!"

I leaped, fingers snatching at the air, grasping. I grabbed him just as his lifeless body fell to the ground.