Emily's pov. I ran to where Sammy lay, fear gripping me, taking in his body before me. “Sammy... Sammy,” I sobbed, dropping to my knees and calling his name softly. I stretched my arms and touched him. “I’m not dead,” he groaned, wincing. He was still conscious. I breathed out, relieved. “Damn. Fucking bastards,” he muttered under his breath, holding his ribs where it hurt the most. “I’m sorry,” I whispered, my eyes scanning his body. He didn’t look good—blood stained his shirt, his nose looked broken, his cheeks bruised and swollen. A nasty black eye was forming fast. He clutched his ribs like they were the source of all his pain. He tried to sit up, struggled, and I moved closer to help, but he ignored my hand. I didn’t think too much of it. I just ran to the fridge to grab an ice bag for the swelling. When I came back, he was already on his feet, one hand gripping the wooden chair beside him for support. He looked... different. Not just hurt—angry. Fractured, even. Like some
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