R U H A N I K A'S  P O V

When I saw him standing there, framed by the dust and the moonlight, my lungs finally remembered how to breathe. For the last hour, every breath had been a struggle—shallow, jagged, and filled with the metallic scent of my own terror. But the moment his silhouette broke through that door, the suffocating weight on my chest simply vanished. It didn't matter that he looked like a god of vengeance; it didn't matter that his eyes were darker than the night itself.