Cara was followed by two unfamiliar faces, who did not look like anyone from Ethan's inner circle.

Cara, as arrogant as ever, pulled out a chair and sat down across from Greta.

In the past, Greta had never argued with her. She had held back only because Ethan said Cara was the daughter of an old acquaintance. He had promised that man on his deathbed that he would look after her.

But from the very first moment Cara saw Greta, she had disliked her.

Ethan once asked Cara to take Greta out to clear her mind. Instead, Cara deliberately abandoned her on a deserted mountaintop during a typhoon.

At that time, Greta had only just arrived in Portwick. She did not even have a phone on her.

Wandering alone in the raging wind, she could not find her way back. The torrential rain soaked her through, and a high fever left her barely conscious.

By the time Ethan found her, she was clinging to her last breath.

The once-hardened man who had taken several bullets to save Greta without making a sound collapsed in an instant, crying like a child.

He had never believed in gods. Yet that night, he fell to his knees and prayed until dawn, asking for nothing but Greta's life.

That time, he wanted nothing more than to kill Cara.

Greta thought he truly hated her after that.

Until the day Ethan went to confront his sworn rival, Andrew Kane, to reclaim the ring Greta had been longing for, only to walk in on Cara kneeling at the man's feet, struck hard across the face.

Ethan's eyes immediately reddened. He did not ask why. He rushed forward and started fighting Andrew.

The fight escalated quickly. Blades came out. To shield Cara behind him, Ethan exposed his back and a sharp weapon slashed into him.

He risked his life to protect her.

In doing so, he forgot Greta completely and how viciously Cara had once hurt her.

Cara looked at Greta, her eyes filled with mockery as she sneered, "Greta, I never thought you would end up like this."

Greta remained calm and let out a soft laugh, "Cara, I suggest you don't provoke me. You can't afford it."

Cara scoffed. "What's so scary about you? You're just trash Ethan picked up from the Red Delta. This is Portwick. What can you do to me? Drag me to that living hell? Besides, do you even dare go back?"

Greta narrowed her eyes dangerously.

She had never liked arguing with people. If a knife could solve something, she would never waste words.

Before Cara could react, Greta moved. In a blink, she was right in front of Cara.

A compact, razor-sharp dagger pressed against the artery in Cara's neck.

Seeing her life in Greta's hands, the men behind Cara froze, daring not make a move.

Cara panicked as well.

The arrogance drained from her face. Even her voice began to shake.

"You—what are you doing?" she stammered. "Don't touch me, or—or Ethan will—"

"He'll what?" Greta cut her off, her voice holding no emotion. "He'll kill me? Before he gets the chance, I'll kill you first. When we meet down there, you can explain it to me properly. How does that sound?"

Cara's face went deathly pale.

She knew exactly who Greta used to be. She had simply grown fearless, relying on Ethan's protection.

Raised in comfort, she could never imagine a woman like Greta—someone forged at the edge of a blade, living each day ready to kill or be killed.

Greta had promised Ethan she would no longer kill at will. But she had endured enough.

The one who provoked first deserved what came next.

She had already decided to leave. It was Cara who insisted on provoking her.

With a flick of her wrist, Greta's blade traced a path to a spot that would kill in one precise strike.

"Don't—!!!"

As Cara screamed herself hoarse, the basement door was kicked open with brutal force.

"What are you doing!? Let go of Cara!"

In the split second Greta was distracted, Ethan raised his gun at her.

She thought he would not pull the trigger.

But the muzzle was aimed straight at her. In his eyes, roiling with rage, she saw nothing but killing intent.

A deafening gunshot exploded inside the enclosed basement.

The sound tore through Greta's ears. It also shattered her final hope and every ounce of sincerity she had left.

The bullet struck her right shoulder.

The dagger fell to the floor. Cara was unharmed.

Greta's right arm streamed with blood. It flowed down her fingers, drop by drop.

Ethan yanked Cara out of Greta's grasp. He looked her over again and again, his face full of panic.

Only after confirming she was completely unhurt did he turn back. Rage consumed him as he roared, "Do you really have to force me to kill you myself?!"

Greta pressed her lips together tightly. Blood loss drained the color from her face until it was paper-white.

Yet she did not move. She did not even frown.

"Ethan," she asked quietly, "are you really going to kill me?"

The words left her mouth. And she realized they were not a question at all. They were an undeniable fact.

Ethan's brows knitted, his eyes still roiling with violence.

Then he noticed Greta's trembling right hand. He saw the blood dripping steadily to the floor. Something jolted in his head.

Agony surged through his mind.

Something buried deep in his memory, something sealed away, seemed to be torn open by the sight of that vivid red.

"Greta... " It was the first time he had called her that since losing his memory.

He clutched his head and collapsed into a crouch. Cara rushed to support him at once.

Greta stood like a statue, utterly still.

She looked at him calmly, her voice colder than ice.

"Ethan," she said, "You once took a bullet for me. And now, you've put one into me. We're even now."

No one dared to stop Greta when she walked out of the basement.

Her reputation in the borderlands had long since made its way through Portwick. Everyone knew exactly what kind of monster she had once been.

Ignoring all eyes on her, she returned to the room that had once belonged to her and Ethan.

As she stood there, surrounded by traces of the life they had shared, a sharp, overwhelming pain surged through her all at once.

Whether from the gunshot wound in her shoulder or the one buried deep in her chest, she could no longer tell.

She only knew it hurt, hurt in a way she had never known before, not even during those years when she had wrestled with death itself.

While she stood there, dazed, her phone rang.

A familiar number lit up the screen.

"I heard he hurt you for that woman. Do you want to come stay with me?" the voice said calmly.

Greta refused without hesitation.

She neither wanted nor needed to rely on anyone ever again. All she wanted was to leave this place that had never truly been hers.

But the pain kept spreading, her consciousness slowly slipping.

And somewhere between waking and darkness, she felt herself dragged back to the Red Delta, back to the days before Ethan had come for her.

She was covered in blood then, thrown into an iron cage with starving wolves.

The drug lord told her that if she could survive even this, she would never have to face another trial.

She had been fifteen years old back then. Eighteen pairs of eyes gleamed in the dark, thick with hunger.

She could not defeat them barehanded. All she could do was run, dodge, and keep moving, until her strength failed her completely and she closed her eyes in despair, waiting for death.

But the agony she expected never came. Instead, the scent of meat drew all eighteen wolves to the far side of the cage.

A boy with mismatched eyes stood there, tossing chunks of flesh to the wolves, then casually throwing a knife toward her.

Taking her chance, Greta struck, blade flashing, killing each wolf while they fed.

The boy looked back at her with an innocent face and a brilliant smile.

"Call me Andy," he said lightly. "Stick with me, and I'll make sure you don't die."

Greta laughed, then, as the laughter faded, closed her eyes again in despair.

Somewhere in the haze, she felt someone sit beside her bed.

A hand took hers, fingers interlacing tightly.

Half-conscious, she murmured, "Andy?"

The man stiffened. In the next instant, he flung her hand away.

Rage exploded without warning as he grabbed her by the shoulder and yanked her upright.

When Greta opened her eyes again, the smiling boy was gone.

All that remained were eyes bloodshot with fury, burning red.

"Greta," the man demanded coldly. "Look carefully. Who do you think I am?"

It was Ethan.

He smelled of alcohol, a chill drunkenness clinging to him.

Only then did Greta realize she was in a hospital.

Had Ethan brought her here?

Probably not.

Otherwise, he would not have dragged her so roughly, tearing open the wound in her shoulder.

The freshly stitched flesh was splitting apart once more.

Greta moved with difficulty.

Ignoring the blood flowing freely again, she forced herself to turn over, presenting her back to him, unwilling to meet those cold, hate-filled eyes again.

Yet she still heard him ask through clenched teeth, "I never knew you had someone else in your heart."

He paused. "You're filthy."

Greta's body stiffened violently, trembling as if struck by lightning.

The bullet had pierced her shoulder, yet it felt as though someone had fired straight through her heart, the pain so intense she could barely breathe.

Who was it that claimed her past didn't matter?

And who had ever said that someone could rise from the muck and still be considered pure?

Yet now, he called her filthy.

She heard Ethan give orders outside the door. "Watch her. Don't let her leave the room."

After a brief pause, he added, "And don't let anyone visit her."

"Boss," someone hesitated, "the anniversary of Mr. Kirk is coming up. We'll all be attending. Who's going to keep an eye on her?"

"Find a couple of subordinates," Ethan replied coldly. "I've been remembering some things lately. Once the memorial is over, I'll talk to her properly."

"But I saw her packing earlier," the man continued. "If she really wants to leave, even the subordinates might not dare stop her—"

"Except for the Red Delta, she has nowhere to go. She won't dare leave me," Ethan cut in.

Footsteps faded. Ethan was gone.

Greta slowly turned back, her eyes fixed on the closed door.

Blood still seeped from her shoulder, but she felt nothing anymore.

Her heart was the same.

Ethan had underestimated Greta.

Having been raised in hell, being thrown back into it by him could change nothing.

He had bet she wouldn't leave. She, in turn, bet that he would regret it.

Over the past two days, Ethan had found himself thinking about Greta from time to time. The memories came in fragments, disjointed, never enough to form a complete picture.

Meanwhile, Cara stayed glued to his side, urging him to help arrange her father's memorial.

Ethan figured Greta needed time to recover anyway. Once the memorial was over, he could sit down and talk things through with her properly.

Then, the day before the memorial, a call came in from an unfamiliar number.

Ethan had only heard a single sentence before his expression changed completely.

"If you dare lay a finger on her, I'll take your life," he said.

After hanging up, Ethan immediately mobilized his men and ordered a full-scale search for Cara.

Then something struck him. His face darkened further.

He drove straight to the hospital and shoved open Greta's hospital room door.

"Greta, was this you…?"

The room was empty.

Greta was gone.

Ethan's heart skipped violently.

This was the first time since losing his memory that Greta had triggered a feeling he couldn't name.

Before this, all he had recalled were scattered images.

Of her managing his business affairs, washing his clothes, or baking cakes.

He even remembered her carrying him on her back while dodging gunfire, running two full blocks with bullets flying around them.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember where she had come from.

And now that she had disappeared, where could she possibly have gone?

His phone rang again.

The photo on the screen showed a severed finger, still smeared with blood.

"Your childhood sweetheart," the message read, "and the wife you've been married to for years. Let's hope you won't find tomorrow's memorial too difficult, Mr. Price."

Ethan ground his teeth. He hurled the phone against the wall. It shattered with a deafening crash.

The next day, the cemetery entrance was under heavy guard. Ethan had ordered full security, waiting for the other party to appear.

At last, an unremarkable black car pulled up.

The moment the door opened, Ethan had already raised his gun.

But when he saw who stepped out, he lowered it instantly, afraid of hitting her by mistake.

Cara stumbled forward, her entire body strapped with explosives, crying so hard she could barely stand. Ethan's chest tightened in pain.

When he noticed the blood‑stained bandages wrapped around her right hand, murderous intent surged uncontrollably.

Just as his fury peaked, he saw another figure step out behind her.

It was Greta. She, too, was bound with explosives. Her expression was cold and detached.

Only the wound on her shoulder remained shockingly vivid.

Ethan's heart skipped again.

In the past, he wouldn't have hesitated. He would have chosen Cara without a second thought.

But now, for reasons he couldn't explain, his mind was in chaos.

The last person to step out of the car was the man Ethan wanted dead more than anyone else—Andrew.

The man wore a lazy smile, his expression openly mocking, The way he stood there, looking like he was enjoying the show, was infuriating.

Ethan clenched his jaw, his voice cold and vicious, "Andrew, what exactly do you want?"

Andrew glanced at the two women, his smile dripping with sarcasm.

"Mr. Price, what's it gonna be? Cara or Greta. Pick one."

Ethan fell silent.

After a moment, just as Andrew's patience began to wear thin, Ethan suddenly laughed, "I want both. What do you think you can do about it?"

The words barely left his mouth before hundreds of men surged from all corners of the cemetery, pressing in on Andrew until there was no way through.

Ethan's lips curled in a contemptuous smile, "You and I have been at each other for years. You really thought I'd come here unprepared to negotiate?"

Andrew's eyes, however, betrayed no hint of panic, only a trace of mockery.

"Is that all you've got? You really are an idiot!" he sneered.

Almost as soon as the words left his lips, explosions ripped through the air.

The men surrounding Andrew were shredded instantly, their bodies torn apart, and even the gravestone was caught in the blast.

Smoke and the stench of blood filled the air like a living thing.

Ethan's finger tightened on the trigger until his knuckles went pale, his gaze cutting as cold as a knife.

"Andrew, respect the dead. Don't take this too far!" he roared.

Andrew's previously cocky expression hardened into cruelty.

He held a detonator in one hand, his smile dark and calculating, "I've lost my patience with your games. Two choices. One—or neither?"

"Stop!" Ethan shouted.

Seeing that Andrew was serious, he felt panic rising, tangible and terrifying.

On one side was Cara, crying so violently she could barely stand. On the other side was Greta, cold as ice, expression unreadable.

"Ethan! Help me! My father died saving you! Don't abandon me now!" Cara cried.

Ethan's whole body shuddered.

His gaze flicked to the tombstone, memories flooding back— the dying man clutching his hand, pleading for him to protect Cara.

And yet…

At the same time, a torrent of images, fragments of life and death shared with Greta amid bullets and blood, assaulted his mind.

His head felt as if it were splitting apart, the pain so sharp it made him stagger.

Shards of memory tore through his brain, each one slicing at him from a different angle.

He doubled over, clutching his head, pain radiating through every nerve.

"Choose. Now. Three... two..."

"Wait!" At the very last second, Ethan drew a deep breath and made his choice. "Let go of... "