No. His mind goes blank. Then—he's moving. He doesn't remember deciding to. He just—is.
Mohamad staggers toward her. Blood. Too much. Everywhere. His hands lift—then stop. Hovering. Useless. Where do I touch? Where's the wound? Where?
His fingers tremble. Violently now. Uncontrollable.
Ace.
Jason rushes in, stepping between them. "Akira Lounge, back alley, now!" he barks into the phone.
Then his hand clamps around Mohamad's arm. "The ambulance's coming. Don't touch her."
Don't touch her. Mohamad doesn't hear him. Not really. His eyes stay locked on her. On the blood. On the way she's not moving. How—His breath stutters. Shallow. Wrong.
How could this happen? No. This can't—No. This can't happen.
Jason has seen this once before. Four years ago. A hospital room. His mother on the bed—bruised, bloodied, barely conscious. Mohamad stood there the same way. Still. Silent. Completely gone.
He looks at him now. Same expression. Same emptiness. For a man who is always in control, always decisive—this is what breaks him.
Jason exhales, shifting his focus. Ace lies motionless. Please be alive. For his sake. For all of them.
He drops to his knees. Two fingers to her nose. He checks her pulse. There. Slow. Weak. Not good. His eyes move quickly over her body. Find the source. Find it—There. Abdomen.
"Shit." He presses down hard, steady pressure, trying to slow the bleeding. Inefficient. Too much blood. He already knows. Rare blood type. He memorized her file from Project Eve. With blood-soaked hands, he dials. "I need AB negative delivered to Beverly Hills Hospital. Immediately."
"Yes, sir. What's the patient's condition? How much is needed?" the voice on the other end asks.
Jason doesn't answer. He switches to video. Points the phone at her body.
Silence. The Medical Director assesses. "Understood, sir. Do you—"
Sirens. Close. Jason ends the call.
D watches it unfold. Power. Money. Access. Before he can tell his men to call it in, the man already on the scene is moving—phone out, issuing orders. Blood. Specific. Immediate. He even knows her type.
D's eyes narrow.
Who the fuck are you? The thought doesn't finish. An ambulance screams into the alley. Big. Red. Beverly Hills Hospital stamped across the side.
Good. Now he knows where she's going. His gaze shifts. To the man still standing there. Frozen. Not moving. Something about him—familiar. For a second, it pulls at an old memory. Roberto D dismisses it. Not important.
He pulls out his phone. "I want everything on that car."
Images of the Honda Civic—captured just before it disappeared—are already sent.
D doesn't like this. Not the hit. Not the timing. Not the fact that it happened—here. In his city. Under his nose. Someone ordered a hit—and didn't inform him.
A slow smile forms. Sharp. Unamused. How rude.
###
Mohamad can't think. Thinking means remembering. And remembering—is unacceptable. Emotion crashes into him, violent and uncontained. He shuts one down, only for another to surge up, sharper, deeper.
His hand clamps over his forehead, fingers tightening. Control. He's losing it. His chest rises—too fast. Too uneven. Fix it. Now.
He forces his breathing slow. Cold. Precise. But beneath it—something is breaking. Time drags. Each second stretches until it feels like punishment. Waiting. For the doctor. For an answer. For her to survive.
A thought cuts through. If she doesn't make it—His hand stills. He doesn't know what he'll do. Doesn't know how he'll survive that. No.
His jaw hardens. She will. She has to. His hand drops. A fist forms against his leg, tightening until the muscle locks. Whatever it takes.
Jason sees it. Mohamad isn't in shock anymore. He's calculating. And that—That is worse. Because he's still breaking. Just not in a way anyone can stop.
He turns. Slow. Deliberate. Jason has seen anger before. Rage. Violence. Loss of control. This isn't that. His eyes lock onto him—black, depthless. Not burning. Empty. Like whatever was human in him just… stepped aside. Jason's body reacts before his mind does—instinct pulling him half a step back. Not fear. Recognition.
"That car." Mohamad's voice is quiet. Too quiet. Each word lands clean. Precise. Final. "Find it."
A pause.
"Find the driver."
Another.
His gaze doesn't shift. Doesn't blink.
"Find who ordered it."
Silence stretches—tight, suffocating.
Then, softer— "Bring them to me."
Jason doesn't move. Because he understands what that means. This isn't an investigation. This isn't damage control. This isn't justice. It's a sentence. Already decided. Already carried out. They're just… finding the bodies.
Jason always knew they'd cross this line someday. He knew it the moment Mohamad came to him—ten years ago—with a plan to dismantle his father piece by piece. Back then, it made sense. Calculated. Inevitable.
War—just delayed. He'd expected blood when Mohamad finally stood face to face with him. Expected it. Prepared for it.
But this? Now? Because of her.
He finally gives a nod. Not that Mohamad needs one. Jason's gaze drifts to the closed operating room doors. Because of her. He repeats it silently—testing it. Weighing it. Trying to understand what she is.
He looks back at Mohamad. Still. Unmoving. Watching the door. There's no panic left. No urgency. No fear. Just—finality.
Jason's chest tightens. He's seen this exact look before. Right before a decision becomes absolute. Irreversible.
A quiet realization settles in. This isn't temporary. This isn't obsession. This isn't something that will pass. This is it.
Jason exhales slowly. Because whatever she is—whatever she did— She didn't just get his attention. She didn't just get under his skin. She has him. And for the first time—Jason isn't sure who belongs to who.
The operating room doors burst open. The attending surgeon steps out, mask pulled down, gloves still streaked. "Her condition is critical," he says, voice clipped, controlled. "She's in hemorrhagic shock from abdominal trauma. We've stabilized her airway, but she's losing blood faster than we can replace it."
His gaze sharpens. "There's significant renal damage—her left kidney is nonviable. She'll require an immediate nephrectomy, and she'll need a transplant."
A beat. "Her blood type is AB negative. We've initiated emergency transfusion protocol, but compatible supply is extremely limited."
He exhales once—tight. "There's also extensive uterine trauma. The damage is irreversible. We'll have to proceed with a total hysterectomy."
Silence.
Then—"I need consent. Who is authorized to sign for her?"
A total hysterectomy. The words don't land. They echo. Once. Twice. Again—Until they stop sounding like language and start sounding like something else. Final.
Jason's head snaps toward Mohamad. Just in time. He sees it. The moment it breaks him. Mohamad doesn't move at first. Then—slowly—his body gives. Not dramatic. Not loud. Just—his shoulders dropping a fraction too much. His back hits the seat, heavier than it should. Like something inside him… collapsed. Structure gone.
He doesn't understand it. Only feels it. Sharp. Hollow. Wrong. Something is gone. A future. The word forms without permission. He doesn't recognize it. Doesn't want to.
And then—it comes. A flash. Not whole. Not deliberate. Not chosen. Her. Close. Laughing—unguarded. His hand at her waist. Familiar. Natural. And—something smaller. Warmer. A hand. Wrapped around his finger.
His breath catches. The image vanishes. Gone before he can hold it. Before he can reject it.
His jaw tightens. Hard. Too late. What was that? His mind moves—fast—reaching for logic, for dismissal, for control. Find it. Name it. Kill it. He doesn't.
Had he—wanted that? The thought feels foreign. Wrong. Like it belongs to someone else. Children? With her? No.
His chest tightens. Violent. Immediate. Then why—Why does it feel like something was just taken from him? Before he even knew it was his.
Jason sees it in his eyes. Raw. Unfiltered. Something Mohamad has never—never let anyone see. Grief.
Too heavy. Too thick to hide. It floods too fast. He blinks. Once. Again. Like he can force it back. Lock it down. Rebuild the walls. He looks up. Meets Jason's gaze. And it's still there. That break. Deep. Quiet. Irreversible.
Jason's swallows his breath. Because he has never seen Mohamad like this. Not when his mother—Not even then.
"I am." The word cuts through the silence. Low. Steady. But wrong. Too tight. Not a response. A claim.