Master of his heart (Max and Brielle)

Patrick's heart felt like it was being wrung out. He didn't say a word, just followed behind in a heavy silence.

Max hadn't gone far when he spotted a man on the ground, gunshot wound fresh and throat slashed, having fallen from a great height. Yet, miraculously, the man was still alive.

Patrick called for reinforcements, and soon, help arrived to handle the situation. Max didn't stop; his mind was set on finding Brielle.

He trudged along the muddy path for nearly a mile before he finally spotted her silhouette. If his need to find Brielle had been strong before, now he wished with every fiber of his being that it wasn't her lying there.

She lay still, her head resting in a dark pool of blood. Max felt like the world had gone silent. He moved instinctively closer, bending down to touch her hand, terrified it would be as cold as death.

His fingertips pulled back, eyes wide with shock, sorrow, and panic. Patrick quickly stepped in, placing a finger under Brielle's nose to check for breath. Max, unable to speak, watched him desperately.

His body, which had been fueled by adrenaline, now felt icy cold. He had imagined countless ways to reunite with Brielle, but never like this. He tried to speak but found himself mute. Slowly, cautiously, he reached out and touched Brielle's palm. It was cold, devoid of warmth.

Max lowered his gaze, grasping her hand in his, exhaling a warm breath, trying to will his heat into her. What if Brielle was gone? What if she was truly dead? What then?

"She's still breathing, sir," Patrick confirmed, his own heart heavy at the sight.

Max's eyes clung to hope as he tried to lift Brielle, but his arms felt like overcooked spaghetti. As Brielle slipped from his grasp, he gathered her up again, only for her to slip once more. His strength had abandoned him, his body paralyzed by an overwhelming terror that clouded all thought.

Unable to bear the sight, Patrick crouched down. "Let me carry Ms. Brielle. They're ready for us back there. She's got a severe head injury. We can't waste any time."

Max nodded, summoning all his strength to help position Brielle onto Patrick's back. His legs gave way, leaving him barely able to stand as he rasped, "Go ahead."

Patrick nodded and hurried back the

way they came. Max waited until he could feel his limbs again before rising from the cold stone, leaning against a tree for support, feeling as though his chest was being torn apart. He had never experienced such raw agony, as if his bones were being ground to dust.

vel

Max staggered forward, tripped, and the flashlight he carried broke, plunging his surroundings into darkness. With an exceptional memory, he recalled the exact number of steps he had taken. Discarding the broken flashlight, he relied on the feeble moonlight to find his way back.

He felt something cold on his face and looked up, expecting rain, but the sky was clear. How strange. He had lived for twenty-six years but had never felt such intense emotion.

By the roadside, the car that had brought Brielle had already left, leaving behind people waiting for Max. When Max finally arrived, everyone was taken aback by his disheveled appearance-his once pristine clothes now soiled, his expensive shoes caked with mud.

"Sir, please, get into the car."

Max remained silent, climbing into

the vehicle with a quiet dignity that was both heartbreaking and imposing. When Max reached the hospital, Brielle was already in the emergency room. He didn't bother changing clothes, sitting stoically as

doctors and nurses bustled around

him.

At dawn, Brielle was wheeled out. Max stood, his throat too tight to ask anything, feeling as though a blockage was suffocating him. He watched in silence as Brielle was moved to the ICU-a place his mother had never returned from just days ago. Insisting on a protective suit, Max was determined to stay by her side. For three days, he didn't blink, didn't eat, didn't drink, holding her hand as if that alone could bring her back to consciousness.