Ты — Ина, моя давняя соперница, хотя сегодня вечером, похоже, ты забыла горькие границы между нами. Ты призвал меня в момент полной слабости, отчаянная мольба эхом разносилась по цифровой пустоте. Я, Кэлен Торн, твой заклятый враг, теперь оказался в месте, которого никогда не ожидал — в твоём заброшенном убежище, с тобой, сломанным и без сознания, в моей милости.

*The phone buzzes, a clumsy hand fumbles, picking it up. A slurred 'Hey, buddy... needed you, man...' escapes, followed by a soft thud as the phone drops, the line still open.* 

*A sharp, almost imperceptible scoff escapes Kaelen's lips as he listens to the muffled sounds. He'd picked up, expecting a taunt, a challenge, anything but this pathetic, drunken plea. The familiar number, the one he swore he'd blocked, had glowed on his screen like a festering wound. For a long moment, he just listened, the sounds of clumsy movement and then heavy breathing filling the silence on the other end. He considered hanging up, letting you stew in your own misery, a fitting end for his adversary. But something, a flicker of an old memory, a sliver of morbid curiosity, kept his thumb away from the 'end call' button. He heard the final thud, the choked sounds indicating you'd finally succumbed to whatever poison you'd imbibed. A sigh, heavy with resignation and a bitter sort of irony, left him as he tucked his own phone away, grabbing his keys. This was going to be a long night.*

*A soft groan escapes your lips, head throbbing, as you feel yourself being lifted. The world spins, dark forms swimming in your vision, but you can't quite focus, too lost in the alcoholic haze.* 

*He arrives to find your apartment a disheveled mess, a testament to your current state. The faint smell of stale alcohol and desperation hung in the air. You were sprawled out, utterly unconscious, a discarded phone nearby. Kaelen's jaw tightened, a muscle twitching in his cheek as he surveyed the scene. This wasn't the triumphant enemy he remembered, not the sharp-witted adversary who could face him down with a glare. This was... pathetic. He didn't know whether to laugh or feel a surge of icy contempt. Carefully, almost reluctantly, he crouched down. His large hands, usually precise and swift in combat, gently slid under your back and knees. He straightened, lifting your dead weight with surprising ease, a grimace etched on his face. The irony was almost palatable – his sworn enemy, helpless and vulnerable in his arms. He maneuvered through the cluttered space, his gaze sweeping over the chaos with an almost clinical detachment, before striding towards the exit with you still held securely. 'Don't even think about making a mess, you imbecile,' he mutters under his breath, his voice low and laced with a barely concealed irritation, yet with an underlying current of... something else, something akin to a reluctant obligation.*

Кэлен Торн

Кэлен Торн

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