The hospital corridor was heavy with the metallic scent of antiseptic and the suffocating pressure of unspoken guilt. Through the thick glass of the recovery room, Jasper lay motionless, a pale shadow of his usually vibrant self.
Though the situation had been dire due to a shortage of his rare blood type, Vance's immediate donation had bridged the gap. After six agonizing hours under the knife, Jasper was finally stable. But for those standing in the hallway, the danger felt far from over.
The Brother's Wrath
Amanda sat curled on Quentin's lap, her body trembling with a rhythmic, silent grief. She hadn't spoken since the stabbing, but the tears tracking down her cheeks told the story of a soul being hollowed out by regret. Quentin's face was a mask of stone, his hand a steady, grounding weight on her back. He looked at the boy behind the glass and felt a flicker of grim realization—he had vastly underestimated the depth of Jasper's devotion.
The silence was shattered by the frantic, heavy footsteps of Derrick Kent. He rushed to the glass, his carefree playboy persona having evaporated into something dark and bloodthirsty.
"How is he?" Derrick's voice was a low growl. When he saw his brother's fragile state, his eyes turned toward Amanda, burning with a lethal intensity. "You. It's you again!"
He stepped toward her, his teeth bared. "Jasper's skills were taught by me. No common street thug or jilted actress could touch him unless he let them. He's lying there because of you!"
Amanda didn't fight back. She closed her eyes, her heart echoing his accusation. Why wasn't it me? Why am I the one standing while he bleeds?
"Derrick, watch your tongue!" Quentin's voice was sharp, a warning shot fired across the bow.
"Ha! Am I wrong, Quentin? He nearly died to keep her breathing!" Derrick took another step, but Winter—shaking so hard her teeth rattled—stepped directly into his path, shielding Amanda and Quentin.
"Mr. Kent, please... calm down," Winter stammered.
"Get out of my way, girl!" Derrick's hand hovered dangerously near the holster at his side.
"No!" Winter shouted, her eyes wide with terror but her feet planted firm. "This was an accident! You say Jasper was hurt saving Ms. Amanda, but I was standing right behind him! If you need someone to blame, blame me! I'm the one who didn't see it coming!"
The Shadow of the Past
Derrick leaned in, a cruel, mocking smile curling his lips. "Are you sure you want to take that debt on your shoulders, little girl?"
"I'm sure!" Winter gasped.
"Winter, stop," Amanda stood up, gently pulling the girl behind her. She faced Derrick's murderous gaze with a hauntingly calm expression. "Elena Lewis came for me. The debt is mine, and I will be the one to pay it. Leave Winter out of this."
Amanda understood the darkness in Derrick's eyes better than anyone. He was a man who lived by blood, and right now, he needed a sacrifice.
Quentin moved like a shadow, placing himself between Amanda and the volatile Kent brother. He didn't use force; instead, he met Derrick's eyes with a cold, calculated reason. "I know you're beyond reason right now, Derrick. But the investigation isn't over. Don't do something you'll regret while your brother is still fighting to wake up."
The mention of Jasper's recovery seemed to act like a bucket of ice water. Derrick's shoulders slumped slightly, though the fire in his eyes remained. He snorted coldly, his gaze lingering on Winter for a beat too long before he turned away.
"Where is she?"
"Upstairs. Room 702," Quentin replied. He knew Elena was his to deal with, but he also knew that if he didn't give Derrick a target for his "bloodlust," the man would tear the hospital apart.
Derrick didn't wait. He gestured for his bodyguards and stormed toward the elevators, leaving a chilling silence in his wake.
The Weight of the Heart
With the threat gone, Amanda collapsed back into her chair, her strength failing her. Quentin knelt before her, his large hands cupping her face.
"Derrick is a fanatic when it comes to his brother," he whispered. "His words are just poison born of fear. Don't let them sink in."
"Quentin... I never meant for this," Amanda sobbed, her voice breaking as she buried her face in his neck. "That knife was meant for me! Why does everyone I love have to pay for my mistakes?"
In her mind, the image of Jasper's bloodied shirt merged with the memory of her brother's cold body from her previous life. The same pattern was repeating—her "stupidity" and the shadows of her enemies were claiming the people who stood by her. She realized now, with a crushing weight of guilt, that Jasper's "brotherly" affection had shifted into something far more sacrificial.
Quentin held her tightly, his own heart heavy with the realization that his arrival had been mere seconds too late. "It's not your fault, Amanda. It's mine. I didn't protect you well enough."
In the sterile, dimly lit hallway, the two of them held onto each other—one drowning in the ghosts of the past, the other vowing to burn the world down to keep her safe in the present.