Semua Bab The Actor's Contract: Bab 51 - Bab 60

Date = 20 June Three more days before I can talk to Brian.Place = San Francisco (UCSF Medical Center) My new home away from home.POV - AriaI watch them walk away, the echo of their footsteps soft against the polished hospital floor. They seem lighter now, almost buoyant, as if a weight has been lifted. The anxious aura they carried into the room just an hour ago has evaporated, replaced by the kind of quiet relief that only comes after bad news has been ruled out.His father is practically his mirror — dark hair, dark eyes, same proud jawline. His sister, too. I’ve seen them before … the girl with the ice cream. In total contrast, his brother inherited their mom’s blonde hair.Sweet. Normal. Whole.When he first woke up, two days ago, they didn’t allow anyone in. But since then, he’s been moved out of the ICU, and now it’s permitted.However, he refused to see anyone else but his family. And me.Me.As if I’m the one person on the planet he trusts. Or the one he owes the most. Eit

Date = 22 JuneTwo more days snaked pastPlace = San Francisco (Grimms — at Paws and Claws)A new hangout spotPOV - Enrique7:03 PM.The wall clock hangs like a relic, its wooden frame darkened with age and polish, every nick and scratch a story whispered through generations. Roman numerals, faded but stubborn, cling to the weathered face. The hands move with a faint, uneven tick, as though time itself limps along.Just beneath it, three massive displays curve into a semi-circle across a vast ebony desk, their cool glow casting sharp light over the room. Together, they look less like office equipment and more like the cockpit of some sleek, futuristic warship.Grimms — PI / Search & rescue.Bold words, etched on a brass plate at the desk’s edge. And for a moment, I can’t shake the sense that the room itself already knows something I don’t.The open-plan loft itself exudes that same energy — a sharp, high-tech contrast mixed with the rustic charm of The Doghouse bistro below. It has t

Date = 25 JuneMy sister got her new stem cells. Now to wait and see.Place = San Francisco (UCSF Medical Center)POV - AriaThe hospital smells like lemon disinfectant and fear. Mostly fear. At least for me.“So, how was work?” My sister asks as soon as I enter the room, not even bothering to look up from her tablet, on which I’ve downloaded every animated movie known to man. She’s curled up under three blankets and looks like a burrito.A very brave, tiny burrito with a port in her chest and a future made entirely of stem cells and stubbornness.The transplant is over. Now comes the wait — the blood counts, the watching, the nail-biting kind of terror that doesn’t look dramatic but feels like it’s eating your ribs from the inside. This could be her last chance.Her bed is moved against the glass partition separating our room from hers, so the nosy little twit doesn’t miss anything.She’s housed in a positive-pressure environment in which only highly purified air is allowed to enter.

Date = 25 June Never a dull moment.Place = San Francisco (A warehouse) I’d rather not hang out here for too long.POV - AriaWARNING – Graphic content !!!!! Rape - murder !!!The room is cold. Not freezer-cold, but the kind that sinks under your skin and settles into your bones like mold — damp, heavy, and wrong.We are in a storage closet or maybe a utility room. No windows. No lights. Just cracked tiles, an exposed pipe dripping like a metronome for a funeral march, and a rusted, once-blue door with a single slit at the bottom.It smells like pee, dust, and something that died. The kind of space you can’t scream in without it sounding small. The air is too tight, the light too dull, the walls too white.I sit on the floor, on top of a very dirty mattress, tied arms wrapped around my knees. I’m sure my mascara flaked, my hair is tangled in what I can only describe as criminal humidity, my toes are freezing through my socks, and my ankles are numb where the cable ties cut into them.

Date = 25 JunePlace = San Francisco (Inferno parking / On the road)POV - EnriqueI swallow back the bile. Who does this voice belong to? Can it really be Graham?“If that’s all,” my twin says like a death sentence, like he’s already dug the grave, “We have things to do.”“Wait.” The voice is quiet — too quiet — the kind of quiet that makes your skin crawl, because silence is where monsters live.“I know almost everything about you … except what I need to know,” he laughs — not with humor, but with that sick, twisted sound people make when pain’s the only thing left.Axel grits his teeth, “You don’t know shit about us!” He lost his cool.The voice answers it with a laugh so cold, so wrong, it curdles the air in the car. “Oh, I know … every person you shag … every move you make … even those dirty little secrets you’re all trying to keep to yourselves.”Alejandro twists his face into an even worse frown than Jackson’s, and hate clouds Axel’s icy eyes that are fixed on the dashboard as