Chapter 108 Is This Even Humanly Possible?
When fear strikes, instinct takes over—most people drag in a sharp breath, lungs filling before they even realize it. That was exactly why Zander moved without hesitation, pulling Amelia hard against his chest, sealing her mouth and nose against him.
Speaking meant he couldn't avoid inhaling some of the gas himself. His chest rose and fell in an uneven rhythm, the strain visible in the tight pull of his shoulders.
Amelia didn't know who had just burst into the room, but the way he held her made it clear—he wasn't here to hurt her.
Then came the sound of shattering glass. A heavy thud outside. A man's scream.
Alvin had panicked, smashing through the second-floor window and throwing himself into the night.
The gas thinned quickly in the seconds that followed.
Zander eased his grip. Amelia lifted her head, finally seeing him clearly.
He wore a uniform, but it was obvious he wasn't a real staff member. Tall, with messy black hair brushing over his eyes, most of his face hidden behind a mask. His eyes were dark as polished obsidian, and the small tear-shaped mole at the corner drew the gaze like a mark you couldn't look away from.
She noticed something else—his breathing was heavier than it should have been, strained, and a faint sheen of sweat had broken across his forehead.
It wasn't the kind of reaction caused by sedative gas.
Her expression sharpened. “…You have asthma?”
Asthma. And he'd still walked straight into a room filled with high-concentration knockout gas to shield her. One wrong breath and an attack could have hit him instantly.
Zander hadn't expected her to pick that out so quickly.
Fortunately, the mask had kept him from inhaling too much. He took a few controlled breaths, his voice still unnervingly steady. “I'm fine.”
She didn't press, switching instead. “That bald guy—who was he?”
“Alvin. Human trafficker. Sells young women on the black market.”
Her eyes hardened. “I'm going after him.”
Without hesitation, Amelia vaulted the window ledge and dropped to the ground below.
Zander's pupils narrowed.
He keyed his comm, alerting Asher and Dorian to block the bar's other exit, then leapt after her.
The bullet from earlier had hit Alvin. Blood trailed from the spot where he'd landed, a dark, broken line on the pavement.
As Amelia followed the trail, the boy kept pace beside her. “Do you know how to use a gun?”
She nodded.
He tossed her one without slowing. “His men could be nearby. Keep yourself covered.”
Amelia racked the slide with practiced ease—her movements far too fluent to belong to someone new to firearms—and together they pushed forward in the direction the blood led.
The Deep sat in a remote stretch of the outskirts. It was already past ten. The night was pitch-black, wind threading through the stillness, carrying a dangerous edge.
They reached a lot filled with parked cars. The blood trail vanished abruptly—never a good sign.
A moment later, headlights flared, stabbing into their eyes.
After so long in darkness, the sudden white glare forced them to turn their heads.
In those stolen seconds, the luxury sedan roared to life and lunged straight for them.
“Fuck! You shot me!” Alvin's voice was a twisted snarl from the passenger seat. “Run them down!”
The driver—a man who looked more terrified than loyal—pressed the accelerator at Alvin's command.
Alvin wasn't carrying a gun. He'd been ready to vanish into the night, but seeing them close in, panic had driven him to the simplest solution: kill them with the car.
In a place like The Deep, a death was nothing unusual. No cameras, no witnesses willing to talk. No one would ever trace it back to him.
Zander reacted instantly, yanking Amelia sideways while raising his own weapon. One shot shattered the windshield and punched into the driver's right shoulder.
The man jerked back, glass spraying across his face, blood spilling down his arm. He screamed, hands loosening on the wheel.
Alvin slammed a palm into his head. “Floor it! Hit them!”
A second shot tore into the driver's left shoulder—Amelia's.
The tires screamed against the asphalt, the car skidding hard.
With both shoulders wrecked, the man's hands were useless.
But Alvin didn't care. Desperation made him grab the wheel himself, stomping the accelerator to the floor.
The car surged forward, boxing them into a dead-end—wall behind, cars packed tight on either side.
The distance was too short, the speed too high. There was no way to dodge.
The only chance to survive was to leap onto the hood at the exact moment of impact.
Zander's brows knotted, his voice sharp. But then something happened that made him freeze.
Amelia didn't retreat. She stepped forward.
For a heartbeat, Zander forgot to breathe.
The car slammed toward her—and stopped.
The sound wasn't the crunch of metal hitting flesh.
It was the dull, impossible thud of a vehicle being halted mid-charge.
Asher and Dorian arrived just in time to see her bent slightly forward, one hand braced against the front of the car.
Where her palm pressed, the hood had caved inward, metal warped under the force.
The engine sputtered and died.
Silence swallowed the lot.
Asher stared, slack-jawed. “Dorian… am I hallucinating, or should you pinch me right now?”
Even Alvin gaped, shock cutting through his rage.
What the hell was that thing?! No human could stop a car, pedal to the floor, with one hand.
Amelia straightened, walked to the passenger side, and yanked the door open.
She dragged Alvin out like he weighed nothing, tossing him onto the ground.
The man was easily over three hundred pounds, but in her grip he was no more than dead weight.
He tried to scramble away, but she kicked him square in the chest.
The impact launched him several meters, his ribs snapping under the force.
Pain robbed him of speech.
Somewhere in the haze, Alvin regretted screaming at Rocky earlier when the man had been knocked out in the ring. Rocky had taken a kick that sent him flying, and still dragged himself back to fight.
Unlike Alvin. He was certain—if she had wanted—she could have killed him with that kick.
“…Selling young women?”
Amelia crouched beside him, fisting the few strands of hair left on his head, forcing his face up. Her voice was ice. “…You really do deserve to die.”