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Seventeen

Marcello's hands literally remained confined under his pits as a precautionary measure to not punch the walls to bits and pieces. He had been seated for almost three hours and still, no one was coming to give him news about Jasmine's health condition. He wanted to punch something, someone; worse, he wanted to punch himself till his brain stopped functioning. He blamed himself for her state at the moment. If anything was to befall her, he'd never forgive himself: he had endangered her from the very moment he preyed into her life.

He was her curse.

And she didn't deserve it. He didn't deserve her. But he couldn't leave her; not anymore.

He jumped to his feet the moment he caught site of the famous blue shirt of the operating doctor;

"Max, how is she? How's Jasmine?"

"She got shot Marcello, how do you think she is? The operation was a success and she's stable. But she'll need to stay under observation for 24 hours." Max, the head surgeon replied. 

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