Page 32

CHAPTER 32

Ben

T he soft buzz of my phone shatters the stillness of my home, a welcome distraction from the late-night paperwork that's consuming my evening. I stretch my arms, eager for a moment away from the dull glow of my computer screen, and glance toward the vibrating device on my desk, lighting up with Max’s name. As I reach to pick it up, a faint scraping sound from the back door sends a prickling sensation up my spine. My hand pauses, hovering over the phone.

It's probably nothing, I rationalize, trying to dismiss it as the building settling or a neighbor’s late activities. But before I can fully convince myself, a louder thud echoes from the front of the house, quickening my heartbeat. My muscles tense.

Something is very off.

Instinct kicks in, overriding my hesitation. I rise from my chair, leaving the phone behind as I edge toward the back door. My steps are light, cautious, as I strain to hear more. Silence stretches, thick and oppressive, until another shuffle—distinct and deliberate—confirms my fears. Someone is outside .

Adrenaline surges, fueling a rush of thoughts about home invasions and escape plans. I need a weapon. I need to call for help. Pivoting on my heel, I rush back into the kitchen to grab a knife from the drawer, but I halt abruptly as I enter. A figure, cloaked in black, stands between me and the only exit. The dim light casts large, menacing shadows across his broad shoulders.

My breath catches in my throat. The figure steps forward, his movements smooth and confident. The kitchen feels smaller, the walls inching closer as panic tightens its grip around my chest.

Desperation fuels my actions. I lunge left, aiming for the hallway behind him that leads to the front door. If I can just get to my phone, I can call 911. But he anticipates my move. With terrifying speed, he closes the distance, his large frame tackling me to the ground. The impact knocks the air from my lungs; we hit the floor with a thud that echoes through the house.

We struggle on the ground, grappling in the dim light. I push against his weight, trying to dislodge him, but he's immovable, an unyielding mass of muscle. His hands find my neck, fingers pressing into my flesh with crushing force. I claw at his wrists, gasping for breath, my vision blurring at the edges.

This isn't just a fight; it's a fight for my life.

The room tilts and spins as he tightens his grip. Dark spots dance before my eyes, each blink heavier than the last. I buck under him, trying to throw him off balance, but his weight is too much. With a desperate surge, I manage to twist slightly, catching a glimpse of something metallic glinting in his belt—a weapon?

I can't let him reach it. With renewed vigor spurred by raw fear, I slam my elbow into his side. He grunts, his grip loosening for a fraction of a second. It’s enough for me to draw a deep, burning breath.

Our struggle grows more frantic. I kick, punch, scratch—anything to free myself from his deadly embrace. He responds in kind, a silent, relentless force determined to subdue me. His breath is hot and heavy, his body a prison from which I must escape.

Suddenly, he shifts his weight, attempting to pin my arms with his knees. I seize the opportunity, twisting my body and using his momentary imbalance to shove him sideways. He stumbles, but recovers quickly, lunging back with a growl of frustration.

Our fight is a blur of motion and noise, the only sounds the thud of bodies on the floor and our labored breathing. He makes another grab for my neck, his fingers digging in with a strength that sends stars exploding across my vision.

My resistance weakens as the room grows dimmer, my senses dulling under the pressure. I can feel my consciousness slipping away, my thoughts scattering like leaves in the wind. This might be it. This might be how I die— not a celebrated surgeon, but a victim in my own home.

In a last-ditch effort, I gather all my remaining strength and push against the floor, throwing him off with a heave that surprises us both. He loses his balance, and for a moment, the pressure on my throat eases.

I suck in air greedily, each breath a lifeline. But it's short-lived. He recovers quickly, his face a mask of determination and rage. He dives back, and this time, there's a precision in his movement, a finality that chills me to the bone.

His hands clamp down once more, squeezing with a final, desperate pressure. My world constricts to a single, fading point of light. I fight against the encroaching darkness, against the silence that threatens to engulf me. But it’s no use. As my body goes limp, the last thing I hear is the sound of my own ragged, failing breaths. Then, nothing but the oppressive, suffocating blackness.