❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ TIME OF DEATH ❞

「𝜗𝜚 . ❝ he taught her how to be fearless, but every time he saw her in danger, his heart betrayed him—breaking the very rules he made her swear to follow. ❜

𝑇𝐻𝐸 𝑃𝐿𝐴𝐶𝐸 was empty—no Charlotte, no Matthew. Just a gaping silence that swallowed everything whole.

Tim's breath came heavy, sharp, curling into the cool night air. His fingers twitched around the gun at his side, his pulse hammering against his skull. Every second felt like a countdown to something worse, something unforgivable. He wanted to scream, wanted to tear the whole goddamn place apart, but all he could do was listen.

"It's.. never over..." Charlotte's voice drifted through the radio again, quiet, wavering. She sounded distant, detached, like she wasn't even sure she was still awake.

The words barely held shape, slipping out in a broken melody. It wasn't a cry for help. It wasn't even pleading. It was the sound of someone slipping. Fading.

Tim kicked the door open so hard the wood splintered.

The team behind him surged forward, weapons raised, tactical steps calculated but quick. Dust swirled up from the floorboards, the air inside thick with the scent of mildew, old wood, and something sickly metallic. Blood, maybe. Or rust. Or both.

The place was a wreck—rotting furniture, shattered glass, a mattress shoved into the corner with dark stains seeping into the fabric. The walls had that damp, peeling look, the kind that came from years of neglect. It was the kind of place where screams would dissolve into nothing, eaten up by the emptiness around it.

They moved in formation, sweeping the room, clearing corners. Nothing. Then Tim turned left and froze.

Matthew stood there, a lazy grin stretched across his face, his eyes sharp with something dark and cruel. He was holding a wooden chair, tilted slightly, his fingers wrapped around the backrest like he had all the time in the world. But that wasn't the part that made Tim's breath lock in his throat.

A boy, tall but skinny. Around eighteen, maybe younger. Sitting stiffly in the chair, his arms tied to the rests, ankles bound to the legs. A mess of dirty blonde hair, wide terrified eyes, dirt smudged across his cheeks. He was scarily alike Charlotte.

And had a gun pressed firmly to his temple.

Tim's body reacted before his brain did. His gun was already up, his stance shifting, his finger grazing the trigger. Behind him, the other officers mirrored his movement, a wall of raised weapons all aimed at the same target.

Matthew just chuckled.

"Careful there, lover boy." His voice was light, almost teasing, but there was steel underneath. His grip on the gun didn't waver. "One wrong move and—" He made a small clicking noise with his tongue, tapping the barrel against the kid's head. "Well. You get the picture."

Tim's jaw clenched, a muscle in his temple twitching. The air in the room was suddenly too thick, the scent of dust and sweat suffocating. The silence stretched for half a second too long, the only sound the distant, static-filled radio where Charlotte's breathing still lingered.

"Where is she?" Tim forced the words out, his voice low, edged with something dangerous. Matthew's grin widened, slow and knowing.

"You kill me," he hummed, eyes glinting with amusement, "and you'll never find her."

Tim's hands tightened around the gun, his heart slamming against his ribs like a war drum. The bastard was enjoying this. Savoring it. And the worst part? He wasn't bluffing.

The radio crackled again, static popping in and out like distant thunder, and then—her voice.

"My... kingdom for a... kiss upon her shoulder.." Barely a whisper, fragile and unsteady, as if the words were slipping right through her fingers. Charlotte sounded distant, fading, like the air was being stolen from her lungs faster than she could take it back in.

Tim's grip on the gun tightened, his knuckles turning white. His pulse roared in his ears, drowning out everything except the trembling voice on the other end of the line.

His chest felt like it was being crushed from the inside out. She was still alive—but barely. And she had no idea they could hear her.

Matthew's eyes flickered with something dark and delighted, like a predator watching prey take its last breath. He tilted his head slightly, his smirk deepening.

"You like that?" His voice was slick, like oil on water. Mocking. "Listening to her die? And she doesn't even know you can hear it too?"

Tim could feel the weight of every single officer in the room—their shoulders tightening, their breaths caught in their throats, their guns unwavering but their fingers just a little closer to the trigger.

The air had turned suffocating, thick with sweat, tension, and something acrid that burned at the back of the throat—maybe rust, maybe blood, maybe just the stench of pure, undiluted fear.

Matthew gave a small, pleased hum, shifting his stance just slightly, just enough to press the gun harder against the boy's skull. The kid sucked in a shaky breath, his body so still it was unnatural, like he was trying to disappear inside his own skin.

"I thought it was a nice idea," Matthew mused, his tone casual, almost lazy, like he was discussing the weather. "A little... poetic, don't you think? Her singing her way to the grave while you all just sit here, listening." His lips curled at the edges, eyes sharp and cruel. "Like a funeral before she's even dead."

Tim's vision narrowed, his mind a battlefield of instincts and fury. He needed to get to Charlotte. He needed to end this. But one wrong move, and Matthew would put a bullet in that kid's skull without a second thought.

The radio crackled again, Charlotte's breathing uneven, shallow. "It's... never over..."

Tim swallowed hard, his pulse pounding against his skull like a war drum. The grip on his gun was tight, steady, but his insides felt like they were burning. His voice came out low, a blade sharpened by fury, edged with something lethal.

"Where is she?"

Matthew only grinned, slow and lazy, his head tilting slightly like he was enjoying a private joke. The sick bastard was soaking in every second of this, letting the power stretch out between them, pulling Tim closer to snapping in half.

Tim had never wanted to kill someone more in his life.

"Answer me, dammit!" His voice cracked like a whip, his teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. It felt like it physically pained him not to have Charlotte breathing by his side right now. He needed her alive. He needed her safe.

But Matthew just chuckled, dark amusement flickering in his eyes. "You'll have to shoot me," he hissed, pressing the cold barrel of his own gun against the side of the kid's head.

The boy barely made a sound, frozen, his chest rising and falling in shallow, terrified breaths. Then Matthew moved. The gun fired, an ear-shattering crack splitting the air.

Pain exploded in Tim's chest, knocking him backward. His breath hitched, the impact sending a shockwave through his ribs. He barely registered the force of his back slamming against the pavement before more gunfire erupted around him—officers reacting, bullets tearing into Matthew's chest, one after another, ripping through flesh, dropping him instantly.

Tim gasped, hands shaking as they flew to his vest. The bullet had hit, but the Kevlar held. His fingers fumbled over the thick fabric, the force of the shot still thrumming through his bones, but he was alive.

He pushed himself up, head spinning. His ears rang, drowning out everything for a split second before a wet, rattling sound cut through. The boy.

Tim's gaze snapped to him. He was crumpled against the chair, still tied to it, blood pooling beneath him, his body twitching weakly. His breaths were too fast, too sharp, too wet.

"Hey—hey, buddy, stay with me," Tim panted, moving fast, unbuttoning the kid's shirt with shaking fingers. The officers surrounding him quickly cut the ropes restraining the boy. His heart slammed against his ribs as he pressed his hands against the wound, feeling the warmth of blood spill between his fingers. Too much blood.

Tim's jaw clenched as he looked over at Matthew's limp body, already being checked over by officers and paramedics, already declared dead on sight. He should've seen it coming. Matthew knew he was going to lose—he had never planned to rot in prison, never planned to give them enough time to find Charlotte.

Suicide by cop. The bastard knew exactly what would happen the second he fired. He took the easy way out.

Tim cursed under his breath, his hands pressing harder against the kid's chest. "Come on, buddy, look at me," he urged, his own voice sounding distant in his ears.

The boy gasped, his body jerking slightly. His lips trembled, a sound escaping them—half groan, half whimper. The kid coughed, a wet, choking sound. Blood splattered his lips. "Hey, I got you. Stay with me."

Tim quickly turned him on his side, keeping him from choking on it. He could feel the tremors in the boy's body, the sheer panic rattling through him.

"What's your name?" Tim asked, his voice softer now, steady despite the storm raging in his chest.

Jordan's breath hitched, his body trembling beneath Tim's hands. His eyelids fluttered, barely able to hold themselves open, his pupils unfocused and distant, as if the pain was dragging him under. For a moment, Tim thought he wouldn't answer—that he might already be slipping too far away.

Then, barely above a whisper, a single word cracked through the suffocating air.

"Jordan," the boy murmured, his lips quivering, voice raw and fragile.

Tim nodded, tightening his grip around the kid's blood-slicked hand. He could feel the rapid, weak pulse beneath his fingers, a rhythm that was just barely hanging on. "Alright, Jordan. You're gonna be okay," he promised, his voice steady, even as something cold curled in his chest. "Just hold on."

And for the love of God, let Charlotte still be breathing.

A choked whimper broke from Jordan's throat, his thin fingers twitching weakly in Tim's grasp. Tears welled up in his glassy eyes, slipping down his dirt-smeared face, carving silent streaks through the blood and grime.

"I w... want my... big sister..." Jordan whimpered, his voice cracking on the last word, as if just saying it aloud physically hurt. His body shuddered under the weight of exhaustion and blood loss, his fingers clutching at the air like he was reaching for something—someone—who wasn't there.

Then, almost on cue, the radio crackled to life.

Static fizzled in and out, distorting the faint, uneven breaths on the other end. Tim barely had time to register the sound before a soft, broken voice floated through the speaker, each syllable labored, each word dragging out as if it took every ounce of strength just to get it out.

"... all my... riches... for her... smiles..." Charlotte's voice was barely above a whisper, fragile and distant, as if she was fading into some unreachable place. "... when I've slept... so soft... against her..."

Tim's breath hitched.

Jordan's fingers twitched violently, his weak body jolting with the force of his own desperation. His eyes widened, his breath shuddering between his lips as a new wave of tears flooded down his face.

"... Char... Charlotte..." The name spilled from his lips in a trembling gasp, his entire frame curling in on itself as a sob ripped through him.

With what little strength he had left, Jordan reached for the radio, his fingers trembling as they clutched the device. He cradled it against his lips like it was something sacred, something warm, something safe.

His body curled slightly, the way a child does when they're searching for comfort, for familiarity. And in that moment, it wasn't cold pavement beneath him, it wasn't sirens and gunfire and the weight of his own blood pooling against his ribs—

It was soft sheets and a warm lap. A lullaby hummed through the dim glow of a bedroom lamp, fingers smoothing through his hair, gentle and slow. The world was quiet there. No monsters. No pain. Just Charlotte. And now, that same voice—his sister's voice—was slipping away.

His fingers clenched tighter around the radio, his forehead pressing weakly against it, as if trying to crawl back into that moment, back into her arms, back into the past where she could keep him safe.

Tim swallowed hard, the weight of realization pressing into his chest like a slow, crushing force. His hands, still smeared with Jordan's blood, tightened instinctively, his fingers curling into the fabric of his uniform. His own heartbeat pounded heavy in his ears, drowning out the distant wail of sirens and the frantic voices buzzing over the radio.

He knew who this kid was.

The understanding sank into him like a cold knife, slipping between his ribs, twisting. Jordan wasn't just some terrified, dying boy clinging to life beneath his hands. He was Charlotte's little brother. And Tim—God, he almost wished he didn't know.

The air around him felt thick, too heavy, like the very world was pressing down on him, making it harder to breathe. The stench of gunpowder still lingered in the air, mixing with the sharp, metallic tang of blood and the sweat clinging to his skin. His jaw clenched, his stomach knotting.

He could feel Jordan's pulse, weak and thready beneath his fingertips, every beat slower than the last.

Tim had fought tooth and nail to keep people alive before. He'd dug his fingers into bullet wounds, barked orders through the chaos, held onto the belief that if he just did everything right, they would make it. That was the job. That was what he did.

But as he looked at Jordan—his frail body trembling, his breaths growing shallower—something inside him wavered. Because this time, winning wouldn't be enough.

If Jordan died here, on this cold stretch of asphalt, Charlotte would never forgive him. No—Tim wasn't sure she'd even survive it. He thought of her, broken and bleeding somewhere in the dark, waiting. Hoping.

And suddenly, the thought of finding her wasn't the relief it should have been.

He wanted to save her. He needed to. But for the first time, a part of him hesitated. Because if she woke up only to find that her little brother was gone, what kind of world would he be dragging her back to?

Would it even be worth it? Would she want to keep going, knowing the one person she'd fought so hard to protect was gone? His throat tightened, his own grief coiling deep in his chest, threatening to choke him.

His fingers trembled slightly as he adjusted his grip on Jordan, pressing down harder, desperate to stop the bleeding. Desperate to keep the kid here.

"Stay with me, buddy," he murmured, his voice low, steady, even as something inside him threatened to break. Charlotte needed Jordan just as much as he needed her.

"Bradford, the paramedics can take it from here," Angela said softly behind him, her voice carrying the kind of gentleness that only comes when someone sees another person drowning. But Tim didn't move.

The air around him had gone thick, dense like water, as if he'd suddenly been shoved underwater. Sounds filtered in from far away—voices, footsteps, the rustle of gloves snapping on hands—but they reached him muffled, distorted, like they were being spoken through a wall of static. He heard her words, understood them on some distant level, but his body refused to react.

Slowly, his legs straightened. He rose, one stiff movement at a time, like someone waking from a nightmare still caught in its grip. He stepped back, just enough for the paramedics to step forward. He barely noticed the scuff of boots against pavement or the blur of blue uniforms crowding around the boy's fragile, bloody frame.

He expected them to jump into motion, expected the urgency—compressions, oxygen masks, barked-out vitals—but instead... nothing. They knelt beside Jordan, hovered for a moment, and then one of them pressed two fingers against the boy's neck, brows furrowing. Another glanced at the flat line on a monitor.

No shock paddles.

No CPR.

Just silence.

Tim's breath caught in his throat. The kind of silence that doesn't just fill a room—it consumes it.The stillness of death hung there, heavy and unforgiving. And then came the gesture he dreaded most—one of the medics, calm as if naming the time of a bus departure, checked their watch and murmured a few quiet words to the other. Just routine. Just another call.

Time of death.

The words didn't even hit him directly, but they struck something inside him like a hammer to glass. He'd heard those words before. He'd stood in this exact space, in this exact position, more times than he could count.

He had seen bodies—cold, still, lifeless. He had zipped them into bags, shaken hands with shaken families, filled out the reports. But none of those other times had carved into him like this.

Because this one wasn't just a boy. This was Charlotte's brother.

He stared. Unmoving. He didn't even blink.

The edges of the world started to blur, colors and shapes melting into one another, all sound reduced to a low, meaningless hum. Angela was speaking, her voice familiar and far away, but the words didn't reach him.

"We found signs of distress," she said, her tone measured, focused, all business. Somewhere behind her, another officer spoke into a radio, calling out coordinates. Another gave a low whistle to one of the scent dogs. "If we're lucky, he didn't bury her deep. If there's barely any dirt over the barrel, the dogs will be able to pick it up fast."

But Tim didn't hear that.

All he saw was the stillness in Jordan's chest, the quiet curve of the boy's hand slipping limply off his stomach, blood staining the fabric of his shirt. His little fingers—those same fingers that had once probably held onto Charlotte's pinky when they crossed the street—were now slack and pale.

He imagined Charlotte's face when she found out. The way her eyes might hollow out. The way her hands might go limp at her sides. The way she might pull herself into herself until there was nothing left of her at all. And it made something inside him twist, so hard it hurt to stand.

Angela's voice was sharper now. Closer.

"Bradford," she said again. No response. Just that dead stare fixed on the boy.

She stepped forward and grabbed his shoulder, fingers firm, grounding.

"Bradford," she said again, louder this time, her brows drawn together. "We have to continue the search."

Tim blinked, slow. His eyes turned toward her, but there was no focus behind them at first—just a haze of grief and shock, like someone who had just come in from a fire, not yet knowing what had been burned.

Angela didn't let go. She held his gaze, the kind of unspoken understanding passing between them that didn't need to be spelled out. She knew what this meant. She knew who the boy was. And she also knew they didn't have time to mourn—not yet. Charlotte was still out there, and the clock was merciless.

The wind shifted, lifting the faint scent of gasoline and dried blood from the concrete. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then again, louder, more urgent.

That was all it took.

Tim inhaled sharply through his nose, breaking whatever trance he'd been caught in. His jaw tightened. His shoulders rolled back. The grief didn't leave—it wouldn't, not for a long time—but he buried it just enough to move.

He looked down at Jordan one last time, a brief flicker of sorrow tightening the lines around his eyes.

"I'm gonna find her," he murmured, his voice low, cracked.

And this time—he meant it like an oath.

𝐶𝐻𝐴𝑅𝐿𝑂𝑇𝑇𝐸 𝐷𝐼𝐷𝑁'𝑇 know how long she'd been down there.

Time had stretched and snapped and tangled in on itself like old film on a projector reel. Seconds felt like minutes, minutes like hours. Her limbs no longer trembled from fear—they simply lacked the strength to do much of anything anymore.

Her head lolled to the side, the slick metal wall of the barrel pressing cold against her temple, damp with sweat and blood. The air had turned thick, muggy like the inside of a greenhouse left too long in the sun. But it was sharp too—sharp with rust and the sour scent of iron. Her mouth tasted of pennies and something worse.

She had tried to hold back at first—her screams, her sobs, the urge to thrash. Tried to save the air, keep it inside her lungs like it might carry her through.

But that plan had long since crumbled beneath the weight of panic and exhaustion. Now, her breathing came in short, ragged gasps. Her ribs hurt with every inhale, like her body was punishing her for still trying.

Somewhere, in that dim pocket of her brain that wasn't soaked in terror, she wondered if the taste in her mouth—the strange coppery tang that clung to her tongue and made her gag—was from the blood she'd swallowed earlier or if her body had just decided to turn on itself, breaking down from the inside.

She couldn't tell anymore.

Tears came without effort now. There was no need to hold them back. There was no one left to see them. No one to offer a comforting hand, no familiar voice to tell her it would be alright.

And then—like something primal waking from the pit of her stomach—came a sob. It tore out of her like it had claws, scraping her throat raw as it escaped. She didn't mean to do it. It just happened.

A scream followed right after, hoarse and cracking, echoing back at her in the tiny space like her own voice had turned on her. Above ground, the scream hit Tim like a slap.

He flinched, shoulders jerking as the voice crackled through the radio on his hip. The sound was distorted, filled with static, but it was her. Her scream twisted in the speaker—high and panicked and filled with something he hadn't heard from her before: surrender.

His jaw clenched so hard he felt something in it pop, a jolt of pain shooting down the side of his neck. He let out a grunt, the kind of noise that sounded too close to a growl, and his knuckles turned white where he gripped the edge of the radio.

His ears rang, not from the volume but from the desperation in her voice. Every part of him burned with the urge to dig through the entire damn earth with his bare hands if it meant getting to her in time.

"TIM!" her voice broke again, sobbing this time, crashing through the silence of the desert like a siren.

She was pushing against the walls of the barrel now, slamming her cuffed fists weakly against the metal. Each hit made a dull thud, like fists against a coffin lid. She didn't expect anyone to hear it. She wasn't even sure she was still alive.

But she screamed anyway.

It wasn't words anymore—just broken syllables, Tim's name dragged out like a prayer and a curse. Like saying it might summon him. Might pull her out of the dark.

Inside the barrel, it smelled like rot now. Like wet earth and metal and death. Her own skin felt strange, waxy in some places, clammy in others. The air didn't feel like air—it felt like breathing soup. Thick and warm and poisoned.

She sobbed again, this one shaking her entire chest, and when her shoulder knocked against the barrel wall, she felt the blood—fresh and sticky—smearing under her arm.

Up above, Tim was already running.

He didn't wait for Angela. Didn't even check to see if the dogs had picked up the scent. He could still hear Charlotte over the radio—gasping now, each breath worse than the last. It was like her lungs were caving in. Like she was disappearing inch by inch and there wasn't enough time.

"Keep her talking," Angela called after him, but it was already too late. He was gone—feet pounding through the brush, low dried out  branches tearing at his sleeves, sweat slicking the back of his neck despite the cold of the air

One of the K9s had been let loose ahead of the search team, its handler jogging a short distance behind, but suddenly it started barking—loud, sharp, frantic.

Tim's heart gave a jolt, the kind that made your stomach flip. He froze for a split second, caught in the middle of a shallow hill crusted with dry, cracking grass and patches of exposed sandy soil.

But the barking wasn't echoing through the air like he expected—it was crackling from the radio clipped to his vest, tinny and sharp in his ear, like the dog had gotten too far ahead for them to hear it properly with their own ears.

Which means the dog was close to Charlotte, whose voice had been radioed by Matthew this whole time.

He didn't hesitate after that. His legs were already moving, boots digging into the brittle, uneven dirt that broke apart beneath each step like old pottery.

The slope was just steep enough to be awkward, and the ground was soft in a way that didn't match the sun overhead—like it had been dug up recently, tamped down in a rush and left to dry in the heat.

"Charlotte!" he shouted, not caring how his voice broke halfway through. Not caring how his throat burned.

The name tore out of him, raw and desperate, his lungs straining under the weight of panic. He was sprinting now, practically stumbling over the tufts of dry grass, sand kicking up around his ankles as he ran toward the sound of the dog's barks, which had grown louder—more aggressive. Urgent.

Sweat poured down the back of his neck, soaking the collar of his shirt, sticking his shirt to his spine. The heat wasn't helping—not the temperature itself, but the way adrenaline seemed to turn everything molten inside of him. His vision blurred around the edges, not from the sun, but from the crushing weight of not knowing if he was too late.

The wind had picked up just slightly—just enough to carry the faint scent of damp soil. Not fresh earth like you'd smell after rain, but something sour and disturbed. Old. Like something had been buried. His boots caught on a rock and he stumbled, nearly falling forward, his hands flinging out to catch himself in the loose dirt.

He hit the ground hard, knees skidding against the gravel and sand, but he didn't stop. He pushed himself up with a grunt, breathing hard, chest rising and falling like it was trying to escape his ribcage.

The dog was pawing frantically at the dirt now, barking louder, circling a patch of uneven earth near a small dip in the hillside. The patch looked wrong—like it didn't belong with the rest of the hill. Like someone had disturbed it, tried to smooth it back over and failed.

The handler finally caught up, grabbing the dog's collar just enough to steady it. "He's on something!" the handler called out, but Tim didn't answer.

He was already there, dropping to his knees in the dirt, fingers clawing at the dry topsoil with a force that sent little clouds of dust into the air. It got in his eyes, in his mouth, mixing with the taste of panic already crawling up his throat.

"Charlotte!" he shouted again, his voice cracking so bad it didn't even sound like his own. He was gasping now, the world narrowing down to the soil in front of him, to the smell of rust and sweat and earth that wasn't supposed to be dug into like this.

"Get the shovels!" someone behind him yelled, but he didn't wait. Couldn't wait. His hands were already bleeding, dirt caked under his nails, knuckles raw as he tore through the layers.

The radio at his side hissed with static, then, through it—barely audible—a broken, muffled sound.

A sob.

A voice.

A breath.

Charlotte.

And Tim—his whole body trembling, lungs on fire, heart somewhere in his throat—dug harder, faster, with his whole body. Like he could will the earth to give her back. Like he could pull her up out of the dark with nothing but hands and sheer, desperate love.

The barrel cracked open with a dry, splintering sound, the lid pried loose like the last thread holding a nightmare in place. A heavy, foul stench rolled out almost immediately, thick and suffocating.

It wasn't just the sharp, metallic tang of blood—though that was definitely there, like rusted iron left out in the sun too long—it was something more spoiled, something wet and decaying that clung to the air and turned stomachs without warning.

A few officers instinctively took a step back, faces tightening, one covering his mouth with the back of his wrist. But Tim didn't so much as flinch.

His jaw was set, brows locked down over eyes that didn't blink. He moved forward like a man underwater, guided more by instinct than thought. With Angela crouched beside him, and two other officers gripping the rim of the barrel, they worked together to ease her out. Charlotte.

Her body was limp, dead-weight heavy and cold as they pulled her up into the open air. Dirt clung to her skin, to the thin fabric of her shirt, and dried blood traced down from her nose and the corners of her mouth. Her hair was matted against her cheek, and there was no sound, not even a cough. She didn't stir.

He pulled her into position—arms stiff, jaw locked—and started chest compressions without hesitation. His palms pressed down rhythmically, firm and steady, even though each push looked like it shattered something in him too.

The paramedics had already sprinted over, their boots thudding against the dry, cracked hill as they approached, medical bags bouncing at their sides. But Angela stepped in front of them, one hand raised, the other clenched at her side. She didn't say a word. Didn't have to. Her look said everything—don't take this from him.

The paramedics paused, exchanged a look, and stepped back, waiting. Angela stood nearby, watching, jaw tight, her throat moving like she was trying not to cry or shout or both.

Charlotte's body barely responded, her chest rising just enough to give Tim the smallest bit of hope, the kind of hope that people only carry when everything else has already been lost. The wind had picked up on the hill, dry and warm, kicking up little flurries of dust around them.

The sky was smeared with late-afternoon clouds, heavy with orange and bruised purple, and in that strange, still moment, it felt like the world had stopped spinning—just long enough to let him bring her back.

He pressed his lips gently against hers—one, two steady breaths—each one shaky but filled with silent desperation. His mouth tasted like dust and sweat and copper, and he hated himself for how familiar it all was now.

This wasn't how their first kiss was supposed to be.

Not out here, on a cracked hillside beneath the bruised dusk sky, with her chest barely rising and the world caving in around them. Not like this.

He pulled back, quickly, his fingers already moving into place as he began compressions again. The weight of his hands thudded rhythmically against her sternum, the motion almost mechanical, but everything in him screamed.

A few yards away, there was a sudden shuffle of boots through the dirt. Gravel crunched beneath rushed steps. John and Jackson crested the hill, breathless, their faces drawn tight with dread.

"Charlotte!" Jackson gasped, voice cracking in a way no one could've prepared for.

Before they could get any closer, Talia stepped forward sharply, her arm raised like a shield. Her stance said everything that words couldn't—give them space. Let this moment belong to them.

Then it happened. Charlotte jolted beneath him, her body curling slightly as a raspy cough tore out from deep within her. She sucked in air like it was the only thing she'd ever needed.

Her lips were dry and trembling, salt still streaked her cheeks, dried lines of tears that had cut paths through the dirt and blood smudged across her skin.

Her eyes fluttered open, not all at once, but in broken, blinking pieces, as though the light was unfamiliar. As though she wasn't sure this was real.

Tim let out a breath—more like a sob than anything else. His whole body sagged forward, relief making his hands shake. He didn't hesitate. He gathered her gently into his arms, pressing her close against him, shielding her from every pair of eyes that lingered around them.

She didn't speak. She didn't have to. Her body curled instinctively toward him, her face pressing into the crook of his neck, against the dark fabric of his sweat-drenched uniform. Her fingers twitched, then slowly, shakily, moved upward, searching.

Tim stilled. He felt it—a soft, trembling hand against his chest. Her fingers pressed in weakly, like she was looking for something. It took him a second to understand. Then, quietly, reverently, he reached up and guided her hand under the fold of his uniform shirt, placing her palm directly over his heart.

The moment her skin met the steady, pounding rhythm beneath, her breathing hitched again—but this time it wasn't fear. His hand stayed over hers, holding it there, anchoring her to the world in a way that no words could ever match.

And for a long moment, time didn't move. The others stood frozen around them, watching quietly as the wind rolled across the dry grass, carrying with it the faintest smell of earth and blood and something burnt by the sun.

The sky above was streaked with violet and gold now, a cruel contrast to the chaos that had just unfolded beneath it. But for Tim, it might as well have been silent. Charlotte was alive.

And his heart—still beating strong beneath her hand—had never belonged to anyone else.

the long awaited chapter and OH how it is awesome in my humble opinion

i love my babies

also this chapter is fucking 5900 words long because i didn't want to leave it on another cliff hanger SO YOU ALL BETTER READ IT THROUGH AND COMMENT AND LIKE

i'm too lazy to read through so if there are any mistakes— IGNORE PLEASE ONE AGAIN I JUST WANTED TO PUBLISH THIS CHAPTER FOR YOU GUYS CAUSE ITS BEEN A LOOOONG TIME COMING

author drops dead

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– comment, like, & interact. your participation keeps me motivated! thank you!!

❪ 𝖚𝖑𝖙𝖗𝖆 𝖛𝖎𝖔𝖑𝖊𝖓𝖈𝖊 ❫ ˖ ׁ ⁩ 𓂃
𝚃𝙷𝙴 𝚁𝙾𝙾𝙺𝙸𝙴  ⸻  ✧˖°.ᐟ
❝ 18.04.25 ❞