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What Do I Do Now?

Hypothetical Question: You have to pick an animal to fight in a cage match for your freedom. What animal do you pick, and what’s your plan to defeat it? An armadillo or a sloth?

Carina

It’s silent as we stare down at the three bodies, their blood staining the floor in dark, pooling rivers. The metallic scent clings to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of something deeper—something more personal. It's everywhere. A suffocating presence that seems to close in around us.

A tear slips down my cheek, hot and heavy, carving a path through the blood smeared across my face. It's not just the violence that’s overwhelming me now. It's everything. Every moment that’s led up to this.

The years I spent in captivity.

The days when I was nothing but a broken shell, my body a prison, my mind a constant battlefield.

Those men—those monsters—who thought they could crush me, strip me of my will, my humanity.

I was supposed to die at their hands. I was supposed to fade into nothingness, just another victim. But I didn’t.

Then came Italy, the months of numbness and solitude. The slow, painful process of healing. Every step forward felt like a battle, each day a fight to reclaim pieces of the person I once was. But I wasn’t the same. I couldn’t be.

That pain—the raw, gnawing agony—fuelled something dark in me. Something that burned hotter than the sun. Fury. Pure, unrelenting rage. It consumed me, twisted me into someone I didn't recognise. Someone who could take a life without hesitation. Someone who could look at blood and feel no remorse.

But now... Now that it's done, there’s a hollow, gnawing emptiness where satisfaction should be. The vengeance I so desperately craved is no longer enough. It feels like an abyss, one that keeps widening with every breath I take.

What do I do now?

I thought this was the only thing that could keep me afloat. The one thing that could fill the aching void in my chest. But now... now that it's over, I'm sinking. Drowning in my own thoughts, my own fears. The weight of it all crashes down on me. The lives I've taken, the pieces of myself I've lost in the process. It’s too much.

I can't stand. My legs buckle beneath me, the floor rushing up too fast.

But Nate’s there, his arms wrapping around me before I hit the ground. He holds me tight, steadying me, his strength a stark contrast to my sudden weakness. His grip is firm under my shoulders, his touch warm, grounding. His presence is a tether to something—anything—real.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against my ear, his voice rough, steady.

I try to speak, but my throat is tight, constricted with everything I can't say. The tears flow freely now, spilling down my face, as the weight of what I’ve done crashes over me.

"I don’t know what to do anymore," I whisper, my voice broken, raw. "I thought this would make it better. But it doesn’t. I’m lost, Nate."

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, just holds me. I can feel the steadiness of his heartbeat against my cheek, a rhythmic anchor in the storm that’s raging inside me.

"You’re not lost," he finally says, his voice low but firm. "You’ve been through hell, Carina. But you’re here now. You’re not alone in this."

I shake my head, feeling more fractured than ever. The guilt, the shame—it’s all there, bubbling up with every passing second. “I killed them.” The words are foreign on my tongue, as though I’ve never said them aloud before. Like a confession.

"You did," Nate acknowledges softly. "But they deserved it. Every last one of them. And you're still here, still standing. That’s what matters."

His words should comfort me, should anchor me back to the present, but instead, they just feel like echoes. The storm inside me rages on, relentless and unforgiving.

“I don’t know who I am anymore,” I whisper, the confession tearing through me like a knife.

“You’re still Carina,” Nate says, his voice unwavering. "The girl who fought her way back from hell. The woman who refused to break. You’re still her, even if you don’t believe it right now."

His words don’t fix everything. They don’t erase the violence or the blood, or the feeling of being adrift. But they give me something to hold onto. Something to anchor me as I try to find my way out of this storm.

Nate

“We need to clean up and cover up this mess.”

Carina shakes in my arms, silent sobs still wracking her small frame. Her fingers clutch at my shirt like she’s afraid to let go. I stroke her back, my gaze flicking up to Kai. His face is unreadable, but his mind is already moving, calculating the best way to cover this up.

“What’s the play?” I ask.

Kai exhales sharply, eyes scanning the blood-slick floor, the mangled bodies, the destruction we’ve left behind. “We clean up enough to throw off suspicion, but not too much. Make it sloppy. Like a hit gone wrong.” His voice is flat, detached in the way only a man familiar with covering up death can be.

Enzo nods, already pulling out his phone. “I’ll handle the digital trail. Scrub their records, erase any connections. We need to make sure no one traces this back.”

I tighten my grip on Carina before carefully lowering her to a nearby chair. “Stay here, Princess,” I murmur. She doesn’t respond. Just stares ahead, lost in something I can’t reach.

Carina’s sobs start to quiet, but I can feel the tremors still wracking through her. She’s been through hell, and no amount of revenge can fix the damage that was done to her. But I’m here now. I’ll make sure nothing happens to her ever again.

“I’ll handle the blood,” I say, voice low.

Kai gives a curt nod. “We’re not leaving a single fucking trace.”

We move quickly, working in silence. Every sound feels too loud—every breath, every scrape, every shuffle. The blood on the floor is darkening and thickening now, and I focus on scrubbing it up, but it’s not just on the floor—it’s everywhere, seeping into cracks and clinging to our skin.

Kai and Enzo stage the scene. They tip over furniture, scatter items, and make it look rushed and unfinished. It seems like the person who did this wasn’t careful, like they left in a panic.

Enzo hacks into the security system, scrubbing footage and opening the front gates.

Carina doesn’t speak, but she moves with us. Silent, mechanical, her hands wiping down surfaces, her expression unreadable. She doesn’t flinch when her fingers smear through blood.

I watch her for a second, my chest tightening. This isn’t just a shock. This is something else.

“Almost done,” Enzo mutters, giving the room one last sweep. His movements are precise, but there’s tension in his shoulders.

“Are we good?” I ask, looking at Kai.

Kai steps back, surveying the scene. It looks believable. It's not perfect, but it's close enough to throw the police off the real story.

He nods. “It’ll hold.”

I cross the room, crouching in front of Carina. Her hands are stained red, and her breath is shallow. I take her hands in mine, running my thumb over the slick warmth of her knuckles.

“It’s over,” I whisper. “We’re done. And we move forward. Together.”

She doesn’t speak. But she grips my hands tighter, just for a second. And that’s enough.

We’ve survived this, and we’ll survive whatever comes next.