Wounded Rose of Garden Metro

The rain fell like needles that night, sharp and relentless, soaking the cracked sidewalks of Garden Metro’s bleakest district. Streetlights flickered above, dim halos casting ghostly shadows over alleyways where no decent soul wandered after dark. For most, the city was neon and shine, luxury and opulence. But for Elara Quinn, it had only ever known how to bruise.

She ran.

Her thin school uniform clung to her like a second skin, the white blouse stained by both rainwater and blood. Her backpack had long since been discarded, ripped from her shoulders by the same hands that had shoved her into the alley behind the school gates.

Voices still echoed behind her. Laughter. Cruel and crueler still.

“Elara the freak!”

“She probably loves getting slapped around!”

“You should thank us—at least we noticed you!”

Their taunts stabbed deeper than fists. But she didn’t look back. She couldn’t. If she stopped moving, her legs would collapse. Her mind was already shutting down, a protective freeze creeping in behind the ache in her ribs.

Her lip was split. Her knee throbbed. The world spun slightly every few steps. But she kept going, pushing her way through the backstreets of Garden Metro, a city that never cried for girls like her.

She didn’t realize where she was heading until she stumbled out into the old industrial district. The air here smelled like oil and cold steel. Abandoned warehouses loomed like rusting titans. It wasn’t safe. But neither was anywhere else.

Her steps slowed as she neared a particular warehouse with a red-painted door. Something told her to turn around, but her body was numb. She leaned against the cold metal wall, trying to steady her breathing.

And then she heard it.

A voice.

Low. Commanding. Male.

“I said kneel.”

She froze.

Footsteps echoed from within the warehouse, followed by the heavy creak of a door opening. She was no longer alone.

A man stepped into view, tall and broad-shouldered, wearing a long black coat that rippled in the wind. His face was half-hidden under the hood, but the air around him felt... different. Heavy. Dangerous.

Elara’s heart kicked against her ribs.

He looked directly at her.

She tried to shrink into herself, but her body had no strength left.

“Are you lost?” he asked, voice gravel over silk.

She couldn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice—or him.

“You’re bleeding,” he said, frowning as he stepped closer.

Elara stumbled back, slipping and landing hard on the wet pavement. Pain shot up her side. “D-Don’t come near me!” she gasped, her voice a weak croak.

The man halted.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” he said, crouching so his eyes were level with hers. “But you’re going to pass out if I don’t help.”

She shook her head violently. “Please... just leave me alone.”

Something flickered in his expression. Not annoyance. Not anger. Something else. Regret?

Behind him, another man emerged from the warehouse, this one in a suit with a gun holstered openly at his side. He looked at her with a mix of suspicion and surprise. “Boss? Want me to call cleanup?”

“Stand down, Marcus,” the man in the coat said without breaking eye contact with her. “She’s not a threat.”

That word—boss—made her blood run cold.

Oh God. She hadn’t just wandered into a warehouse.

She’d wandered into his territory.

Garden Metro whispered his name like a warning: Damien Vale. The mafia king of the underworld. Ruthless. Untouchable. His name was enough to silence entire rooms.

And he was now crouched in front of her like some dark guardian.

Elara’s breath came in shallow bursts. Her vision blurred. Fear and exhaustion warred inside her. Everything felt far away.

Then everything went black.