Chapter 3

LOUIS

A splitting headache greeted me when I opened my eyes. The weak morning light streamed through the curtains at the other end of the room, causing me to shield my face—though the sharp aches coursing through my body made even that small motion feel unbearable.

A pained whimper slipped past my lips.

I didn’t even want to see what I looked like. A few feet away, the knife I’d brandished at my father lay on the floor, speckled with dried blood. A clear sign that he’d enjoyed himself last night. The familiar sting along my ribs confirmed the fresh cuts he’d left, some already scabbed over.

New scars for the collection. Yay, I thought bitterly.

I exhaled slowly, eyes fixed on the ceiling. A single tear slid down my temple. Then another. And another. Until they flowed freely, silently.

I was tired. So damn tired. And the worst part? No one would believe me. Who would believe that a twenty-seven-year-old man couldn’t defend himself against his own father? To the world, I was weak. Pathetic. Helpless.

I stared at the knife. It was so close. One clean swipe across the wrist, and it would be over. Finally.

No more bruises. No more fear. No more pretending.

Just... silence. I’d finally have the one thing I’ve desperately craved for a long part of my life now.

And honestly, the dark had always been the only consistent companion in my life. It never judged, never hurt—just enveloped. Comforted. At least in the dark, I could pretend I wasn’t alone. I could pretend I was loved by something.

But just as quickly as the thought bloomed, something flickered deep in my chest—a small, flickering ember of defiance. Of hope. I couldn’t let him win. Not like this. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching me crumble into nothing.

No. Not today.

I forced myself to sit up. Every muscle protested. But I moved anyway, pocketing the knife with a trembling hand. It wasn’t much of a weapon, but it felt like control. Like maybe I still had some.

The pocket knife was a gift from Jamie. A silent request for me to make use of it when need be. At the end of the day, I couldn’t even defend myself with the object. But regardless, it can come in handy sometime.

After the agonizing climb upstairs, I cleaned my wounds. The alcohol barely burned anymore. That numbness should’ve terrified me, but all it did was confirm how used to pain I’d become.

Trashing the bloody cotton wads in the bin, I headed toward the shower, ignoring my bruised and battered reflection in the mirror.

I showered in silence, wishing the water could wash away more than just blood.

Dressing was a struggle, but I managed to do so. As I reached the door, my father’s voice stopped me from moving any further.

“And you better not come back without my usual stack of beer—or else.”

I didn’t look back. I just closed the door quietly behind me.

On my way to the hospital, I passed a streetlight pole with a flyer fluttering against it. Now Hiring: Allure Casino – Janitorial Staff Needed. Room, board, and amenities included. 

I paused. The offer seemed too good to be true. But I scanned the QR code on the flyer anyway and applied. Because hope, no matter how small, still flickered inside me.

That night at the hospital was quiet. Boring, even. Just me and the humming fluorescent light. I kept busy—sweeping, wiping down counters, replacing linens. Nothing out of the ordinary.

Until everything was different.

As I was changing the bed in a private room off the east wing, I heard a loud bang. I turned around, but before I could move, the door closed behind me.

Locked.

My brows furrowed in confusion. I tried the handle—no luck. And then there was the noise. Distant screaming. Panic. 

Were those sirens? No—too muffled.

Then the door burst open.

I barely had time to respond before I bumped into someone—a bundle of muscle, heat, and something electric. I stepped back, gasping, looking up at the man I'd just collided into.

Blood seeped from his side, spilling onto his suit and wetting the gauze one of the nurses had slapped on in haste. He towered above me, his broad shoulders moving up and down as he breathed.

He was breathtakingly handsome in that brutish kind of way that spoke of the battles he’d obviously endured.

Auburn hair dropped down over his brow, streaked with light gray that caught glints in the flickering lighting. Deep, brown eyes—sharp and defended—looked at me with disarming force. A bristling beard framed his set face, and his sheer physical presence was gravity itself. Heavy. Authoritative.

A behemoth of a man. I doubt he was anything less than 6’4’’ if not even more. And yet, something in his eyes spoke of an emptiness I usually saw in mine when I dare look at the mirror. 

The rage in his eyes seemed like a cover for something barely hidden. Isolation?

“Sorry," I stuttered, my voice barely above a whisper. "I— I didn't know someone was…"

He said nothing at first. Merely stared at me. At the scars just above my collar. At the shake in my fingers. His look wasn't accusatory. It was… searching.

Instinctively, I raised my collar a little higher and brought down the sleeves of my shirt, before turning away from his gaze.

"I need to sit," he said eventually, his voice low and authoritative—but slightly slurred from loss of blood.

I pushed him into the chair next to me, handling him gently despite shaking hands. He sat, wincing.

"Your name?" he asked, after a pause.

"Louis," I replied quietly, looking at the blood on his shirt.

He nodded slightly, as if memorizing it.

Then, silence.

I tried not to look at him. Tried to focus on looking for clean towels or on calling for help. But when I looked up again, the mysterious man was already looking at me.

And that was when our eyes locked. Something shifted. I didn't know what it was, or what it meant, but I felt it—like the earth itself had shifted beneath me.

A man covered in blood and the cleaner—two universes that should never have intersected—had just encountered each other.

And honestly, I doubted my life was ever going to be the same.