At the end of the hallway.

Abigail ran until she reached a blind spot.

"Stop her."

"There she is."

Two thugs approached with machetes in their hands, laughing maliciously.

"Ah." Abigail tried to jump the railing to fall to the lower floor, but she slipped and lost her balance.

At that moment, there were sounds of blows and cries of struggle not far away, then the dull thud of bodies falling.

A hand, with bone almost exposed, appeared before her.

Blood dripped from the tips of Dante Hendricks's fingers, staining Abigail's terrified face.

"Why are you here?" he asked in a hoarse voice.

"I will get you out of there," he added, holding back the pain as he tried to grab her arm.

"Watch out behind you." Abigail suddenly shouted.

Dante turned instinctively, but the machete grazed his arm, leaving a deep, bleeding wound.

"Ugh," he uttered a muffled groan. Dizzy, he fell against the wall, the red of the blood spreading across his white shirt.

The color was so intense it hurt to look at.

"Please let me go. I will give you whatever you want. Money, anything, just don't hurt me." Abigail begged, clutching the railing, tears blurring her vision.

Her feet barely touched the floor; she could not hold on or jump.

"Will you run again, damn her. Run if you can," one mocked, setting the machete aside and stretching his hand to break her fingers.

"No, please," she whimpered, gripping the railing harder.

She could not die.

Her sister was still waiting for her. She needed to keep living to send money for the treatment.

"Move aside," the other gang member roared. "I will kill her today."

He raised the machete above his head.

At that instant, Abigail let go of the railing and fell.

Five floors.

"No," Dante shouted, reaching out his hand toward her.

The void echoed him back.

He ran down the stairs, searching through the crowd, but found no trace of her.

"Where is she?" he murmured, desperate.

His gaze fell on a garbage truck stopped in the middle of the street.

It was right under the spot where she had fallen.

"Are you in there?" he asked in a low voice, approaching.

Silence.

He frowned, leaned over, and peered inside.

Suddenly, Abigail sprang up inside the truck, holding the knife and pointing it at his chest.

"You." Dante froze.

"You're still alive," was all she said.

Seeing the blood streaming from his arm, her face tightened. Without a word, she climbed down from the truck and began to walk in the opposite direction.

Dante followed her, staggering, leaving a trail of blood behind him.

They left the campus and reached an abandoned factory.

There, Abigail opened an old box and took out a bottle of disinfectant. She began calmly cleaning his wounds.

From the doorway, Dante watched her in silence.

Something pushed him to step closer.

Although he kept telling himself she was not Orabelle, that voice, that motion when she lowered her gaze, confused him more and more.

"You scared me," Dante murmured without thinking.

Abigail glanced at him briefly and continued tending the wound.

"Don't worry. Even if they had wanted to cut my fingers off, I would not have let go. Nothing is worth more than life."

Her voice was calm, but the words hurt like knives.

"Do you want to live like this so much?" Dante asked suddenly, almost to himself.

"Even if I live like a dog, I will keep living," she answered without hesitation.

She finished bandaging his arm with an old cloth.

"Is that how you always treat wounds?" he frowned. "I will take you to the hospital."

"You are the one who should go to the hospital," she replied, looking at the blood staining his own bandage. "I have no money, no time. Rich people like you can afford to fall and get up. I cannot. So if you have nothing else to do, go. I don't want you following me."

She still did not understand what game that man was playing.

Dante listened with a furrowed brow.

"That day, I ordered him to be taken care of. I didn't know it would affect you like this. I'm sorry."

"I don't need your apologies," she answered coldly. "I cannot carry the guilt of a rich man."

"Is that why you didn't return to the bar?" he asked, though he already knew the answer.

He only wanted to keep hearing her voice.

"Don't worry," he continued. "Those gangsters won't bother you again."

But his body could no longer hold up. Dizzy, he fell to the side onto a pile of scrap. His face turned as pale as paper.

"Do you want me to treat the wound?" Abigail asked, approaching cautiously.

Dante did not answer.

She sighed. "Forget it, suit yourself."

But as she turned, she felt her wrist gripped tightly.

"Alright. I will help you."

Abigail cleaned and bandaged his wound gently.

Between silences, Dante asked her name.

"Abigail," she repeated, her voice barely audible.

In his mind, the name was mixed with another.

Abigail. Orabelle.

Both names spun in his head like an echo that tormented him.

"Are you okay?" Abigail asked, noticing him close his eyes.

He did not reply.

Sweat soaked his brow; he had lost too much blood.

"I will take you to the hospital. But I cannot pay the bill, I will only leave you there," she said, biting her lip.

Although she knew it would be a problem, she lifted him with effort.

Suddenly, a cold, authoritative voice rang from the door.

"What have you done to Dante Hendricks?"

"What have you done to Dante Hendricks?"

It was the voice of Randolph Carwyn.

His cold eyes, full of threat, fixed on Abigail.

She looked at him, then at the unconscious man beside her. Finally, she let go and ran toward the back door.

That man was dangerous. Her instincts screamed it.

"Dante. Dante, damn it." Randolph called several times, getting no response.

Cursing under his breath, he lifted him and carried him out.

Before leaving, he stopped for a moment.

His gaze fell on the open back door and the blood-stained cotton on the floor.

His brow furrowed.

"What the hell was this guy doing here?" he murmured.

Unless...

He didn't finish the sentence. Clenching his teeth, he left in haste.

At the hospital.

Dante slowly opened his eyes. His eyelids felt as heavy as lead.

Around him, only the rhythmic sound of machines and a deep, familiar voice.

"Who was that woman?"

That phrase... he had heard it again and again over the past year.

He didn't even need to look to know Randolph was there.

Dante brought a hand to his temple; the movement made him wince in pain.

The hospital.

Had he lost consciousness?

How had Randolph found him?

Questions tangled in his confused mind.

"I don't know," he finally murmured weakly.

"You expect me to believe that," Randolph replied with a sarcastic smile.

"I've seen you with her twice. Twice, she's run away the moment I appear. And you tell me you don't know her."

"I don't know," Dante repeated with a sigh.

In truth, he only knew her name - Abigail.

He knew she worked at the Golden Beach bar.

Nothing more.

Randolph looked at him harshly, seeing the secret hidden in his eyes.

He grabbed him by the collar of his bloodstained shirt and lifted him slightly.

"Dante Hendricks. Tazanna is like this because of you, and it's still not enough for you.

A year ago, you hurt her because of another woman, and now... again.

Who the hell is that girl?

Are you going to tell me you've already forgotten her?" His voice vibrated between fury and contempt.

"In your life, you can only marry Tazanna Carwyn," he added, biting off each word.

Dante calmly pushed his hand away.

"Don't bother her. I've only seen her twice."

"Twice." Randolph let out a bitter laugh.

"Twice is enough for a man like you to lose his head.

That woman must be truly special."

He shoved him violently, making him fall back against the pillow.

"Tazanna wants to see you. If you don't want her to die, come with me to the Carwyn mansion," he said at last, regaining his coldness.

Silence hung heavy.

Dante closed his eyes, exhausted.

"Randolph... do you really think it makes sense to keep forcing this?"

"You owe her your life," the other growled.

"I hate her," Dante murmured with a bitter smile.

Every time he saw Tazanna, Dante fell into a pit of despair.

His feelings toward her had become tangled.

He knew that Tazanna Carwyn had been the cause of Orabelle's death a year ago.

And yet, after she lost her mind, he still visited her, carrying a guilt he couldn't explain.

He drank every night, glass after glass.

But that night, amid the music and smoke, he heard a voice.

A voice so familiar, so alive, he thought he was dreaming.

She... had she come back.

He ran toward the door, staggering, chasing the silhouette disappearing into the crowd.

"Orabelle," he shouted, his voice raw with anguish.

His cry echoed through the empty streets. Some passersby stopped to stare.

"It can't be. She's gone," he muttered, clutching his head.

The wound on his arm reopened, staining the white bandage red.

The contrast of colors under the dim light looked unreal.

"Dante Hendricks." A woman's voice, clear as a silver bell, sounded behind him.

Abigail, who had been crouched tying her shoelaces, froze when she saw him swaying in front of her.

He looked at her, stunned.

"Orabelle," he exclaimed and hugged her desperately.

His hoarse, trembling voice broke against her ear.

Abigail could barely breathe.

"Let me go. Dante Hendricks, let me go, you madman."

She tried to push him away, but his strength was crushing.

He held her tighter.

"No... I won't let you go. I won't lose you again. Orabelle, you're mine. I won't let anyone hurt you.

This whole year I've searched for you, missed you every single day."

His words, soaked in alcohol and despair, both irritated and confused her.

"I'm not Orabelle." Abigail shouted, struggling.

But for the first time, she felt a pang of pity.

That man, who seemed so proud, was broken inside.

Maybe... he just needed a hug.

She stayed still, letting him cry on her shoulder.

"You are Orabelle," he whispered. "I would recognize your voice anywhere."

Her voice.

So... was all of this just because her voice sounded like another woman's?

A sudden anger surged through her.

She felt used, deceived.

She stomped hard on his foot.

"Dante Hendricks, wake up."

He let out a cry of pain and looked at her, confused.

"Abigail?"

But before he could react, a bucket of cold water splashed over his head.

The bucket of ice-cold water hit Dante Hendricks in the face, waking him up at once.

It was the same bucket the cleaning lady hadn't had time to take away; gray and black water stains slowly trickled down his face.

A foul smell filled his nostrils.

When he turned to look for Abigail, there was no one there.

Still dazed, Dante wiped his face with his hands. Just then, Aunt Lynne hurried out with a towel.

......

Abigail ran along the path.

Her heart was pounding hard.

She didn't know why she had done something like that all of a sudden.

The fear in her chest was like a thin thread wrapping tightly around her, strangling her breath.

If he had treated her like that once, there was no guarantee he wouldn't attack her again.

After all, the rich always had strange ideas, finding pleasure in the pain of others.

Once the impulse passed, only a deep unease and an unshakable fear remained.

She rubbed her arms with both hands; her skin prickled under the cold breeze.

When she reached the street without streetlights as usual, Abigail suddenly sensed movement behind her.

She pulled out her small flashlight and turned it on, spinning around to look. Under the thin beam of white light, there was no one.

But...

Her sixth sense told her someone was there.

With the flashlight in one hand and her small knife in the other, Abigail cautiously retraced her steps.

"Dante Hendricks, is that you?"

"I'm sorry for what happened just now. If you want, I can buy you dinner next time to make up for it. Dante Hendricks? Dante Hendricks, is that you?"

No matter how much Abigail spoke, there was no response nearby.

Wasn't it Dante Hendricks?

With her heart skipping a beat, she pocketed the flashlight and ran forward.

......

"Check on that woman."

In the darkness of the night, a cold voice sounded lazily.

......

The next night, even though Abigail didn't see Dante Hendricks again at the bar, the fear kept her on edge, unable to focus on work.

While serving a customer, she accidentally spilled the wine from one glass while filling another.

......

"Abigail, from the beginning, I told you my Golden Beach isn't a charity home. You offended Mr. Claude first, then Mr. Dante, and now look at you, a complete mess. If you don't want to work, just say it. There are plenty of girls waiting for a spot."

In the dressing room, Aunt Lynne jabbed a finger at Abigail's forehead and yelled.

Abigail lowered her voice and her head. "Aunt Lynne, I'm sorry."

Her trembling fingers intertwined; her entire being was knotted up in her throat.

She couldn't lose this job.

The back of her clothes was already soaked in cold sweat.

"Sorry? Does that help you? Thank goodness Mr. Dante doesn't care too much. You didn't mean to kill him last night, right?" Aunt Lynne raised her hand as if to slap her.

But when only an inch remained between her fingers and Abigail's cheek, she suddenly seemed to remember something and pulled her hand back.

Abigail opened her eyes wide, stunned by Aunt Lynne's restraint.

Aunt Lynne had always been ruthless with people, so that surprised her.

What startled her even more was what she said next. "He doesn't care?"

"If Mr. Dante cared, do you think you'd still be standing here? What are you spacing out for? Hurry and change. The next client is important. Serve him well. Put this on." She tossed a deep V-neck dress at Abigail from the rack.

The neckline was low, revealing much of her youthful figure.

"This... Aunt Lynne, you know I only pour drinks, I don't do other things," Abigail said hesitantly.

"Who do you think you are? Think some big boss will fall in love with you because you're pretty? If you're not going to work, get out," Aunt Lynne snapped.

......

Taking a deep breath, Abigail opened the private room door.

When she saw the man sitting inside, someone with whom she'd had a complicated encounter before, she instinctively stepped back.

The burly man at the door stretched out his arm and blocked her way.

Swallowing her fear, Abigail took a breath and sat beside Randolph. "Sir, I'll pour your wine."

The bottle in her hand clearly trembled.

That man, just like the two times before, was neither fake nor furious; he radiated intimidation.

"Abigail." The soft, stony voice pronounced her name syllable by syllable.

A shiver ran down Abigail's spine. She forced a smile. "Sir, that's indeed my name."

"You look ugly when you smile like that. Dante Hendricks, why are you looking at her?"

The mention of "Dante Hendricks" struck Abigail's nearly blank mind like lightning.

She forced a smile. "Sir, I don't understand what you're talking about."

Suddenly, Randolph gripped her chin tightly; his obsidian eyes seemed to pierce straight into her soul.

Her jaw almost cracked from the pressure, her face twisted painfully. She managed to say, "Sir, if she doesn't please you, I'll find another girl for you."

The next second, she was thrown a meter away, crashing to the floor.

"Sir, you-"

Swallowing hard, Abigail looked up at the man, her gaze filled with unspoken fear and disbelief.

"Why aren't you on your knees yet?" a harsh male voice said, and someone kicked her hard in the back.

The blow made her cough violently.

The one who kicked her was the burly man who had stopped her at the door.

Her face turned pale instantly.

While she was still stunned, the man kicked her again.

Without thinking, Abigail dropped to her knees and bowed her head.

The taste of salt rose in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

"One million. Leave City B," said a cold, cutting male voice.

"What did you say?" Abigail looked up, eyes wide as she stared at Randolph, utterly shocked.

What was his connection to Dante Hendricks?

The confusion in her heart was no less than her fear.

A second later, Abigail burst out, "Impossible."

"I need this job," she pleaded, her eyes full of desperation.

In front of Randolph, her humiliation was complete.

It was pitiful.

"You don't have the right to negotiate with me," Randolph said, gripping her chin again and staring closely into those defiant eyes.

He had to admit, up close, the woman was quite beautiful.

The sharp pain in Abigail's jaw brought her back to her senses. "Who are you? Who do you think you are?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Her tone carried a string of questions.

"If I wanted to do something to you, I could do it right now," he said coldly.