The rhythmic beep-beep-beep of the countdown echoed against the soundproof walls of Room 402 like a digital heartbeat. The electronic locks had engaged with a heavy, final clack, sealing the heavy oak door. Eva stood her ground, the glass decanter still raised, her chest heaving with indignant fury. She was no longer the mourning widow; she was a woman waking up from a year-long trance, realizing her "protector" was also her "jailer."
"Open the door, Alexander," she commanded, her voice vibrating with cold, jagged resentment. She ignored the flashing red lights, her eyes locked onto his. "If we are going to die in here, I want to see the face of the man who turned my life into a scripted play."
Alexander didn't move toward the door. Instead, he lunged for the main console, his fingers flying across the keys with a frenetic, desperate precision. His face was pale, glistening with a cold sweat that made his new scar stand out like a white brand. He was operating in a state of pure, focused adrenaline, his mind a battlefield where his love for Eva fought against his terror of losing her to the fire.
"I didn't script your life, Eva," he rasped, not looking at her. His voice was thick with suffocating guilt. "I just built the walls thick enough so the world couldn't get to you. I took the hits so you wouldn't have to."
"You didn't give me a choice!" she screamed over the rising pitch of the alarm. The betrayal was a physical weight in her stomach, making her feel nauseous. "You watched me mourn you! You watched me beg for a sign, and you sat behind these screens like a god playing with a toy!"
Alexander stopped for a fraction of a second, his shoulders sagging under the weight of her words. He looked at her then, his eyes reflecting a hollow, agonizing despair. "I watched you because I couldn't stop breathing you, Eva. It was the only way I could stay alive in the dark."
30 seconds.
The smell of burning plastic began to seep through the vents. The unknown antagonist hadn't just locked them in; they had ignited a thermite charge in the ventilation system. The room was becoming an oven.
Alexander ripped a panel from the wall, exposing a tangle of glowing fiber-optic cables. He pulled a serrated blade from his belt and sliced into his own palm, using the blood to short-circuit a specific biometric sensor—a fail-safe he had installed that required his unique DNA to override a remote hack.
He let out a grunt of raw, visceral pain as the electricity surged through him, but he didn't let go. His jaw was set in a mask of suicidal determination. He would burn to ash before he let a single flame touch her.
10 seconds.
The locks hissed. The door clicked open.
Alexander didn't wait. He grabbed Eva—ignoring her attempt to push him away—and threw his body over hers, shielding her as they dove out into the hallway just as a roar of heat erupted from the room. The explosion wasn't a fireball, but a silent, intense wave of pressure that shattered the hallway windows.
They lay on the carpeted floor, the hallway filling with thick, acrid smoke. Eva was gasping, her face pressed against the floor, feeling the crushing weight of his body protecting her.
Alexander pulled back slightly, his face blackened by soot, his hand bleeding heavily. He looked at her with a possessive, fearful tenderness, his hand reaching out to brush a stray hair from her forehead.
"You're safe," he whispered, his voice trembling with a shattered relief.
Eva pushed his hand away and stood up, her eyes hard and dry. She looked down at him—not with love, but with a sovereign, chilling independence.
"I'm safe from them, Alexander," she said, her voice echoing in the burning hallway. "But who is going to save me from you?"
Down the hall, the elevator dings. A figure steps out. It isn't a hitman. It is a woman Eva recognizes—Alexander's "dead" sister, the one who supposedly died ten years ago. She is holding the phone with the voice modulator.
The shock hit Eva like a physical blow. The conspiracy wasn't just corporate; it was a blood-deep family war.