Chapter 11

The night’s events played on repeat in my mind as I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The conversation with Ryen at dinner had triggered memories I usually kept buried. I was back in Spain, a sixteen-year-old kid with a raw hunger to escape a world of pain and brutality.

My sister was my rock, the only constant in a sea of chaos. Our parents were abusive, and she did everything in her power to shield me from their wrath. We shared the burden of survival, clinging to each other in the darkness of our small, rundown apartment. Her fierce protection and unwavering love were my only solace.

When I was sixteen, my talent at fighting and tactics earned me a spot in the military. I saw it as a way to escape our dire situation and make something of myself. The training was grueling, but I excelled, honing skills that would later define my life. I met Alex there when I was stationed in Alaska, and we have kept in contact ever since.

But nothing could prepare me for the message that shattered my world: my sister had been brutally assaulted and left for dead. I abused my position, bending every rule to make an unhonorable exit and rush back to her side.

In the hospital, her breathing was labored, her once strong and protective demeanor now reduced to a fragile whisper. Her final words were a plea I could never forget: “Rico,” she started in a weak voice, “never give up. Always fight for something, anything, for me.”
Those words drove me to seek vengeance. From that moment, I told myself that I would fight against those who perpetuated such darkness.

Now, sitting in my apartment, I turned on the news, seeking distraction. The broadcast flashed with breaking news: “Fire destroys home of local resident, presumed dead.” My blood ran cold as the address came up—Ryen’s.

A wave of panic surged through me. I raced to her house, my hands trembling on the steering wheel, my heart pounding. The morning light made the situation even more harrowing. Special forces were already at the scene, but I managed to slip past them, desperation driving me.

I searched through the charred remains of her house, my heart pounding in my chest. I combed every corner, hoping against hope to find any sign of her. But the search yielded nothing—no body, no trace.

Despair clawed at me. The one person who had begun to pull me out of my self-imposed isolation, the one who had made me feel something again, was now gone. I sank to my knees among the ruins, consumed by a deep, gnawing depression.

The weight of her absence hit me like a physical blow. It wasn’t just about our burgeoning relationship; it was about losing someone who had started to matter so much, someone who had given me a glimpse of a different life.