Chapter 82
Emily Windsor's POV
I held my breath and carefully approached the door, pushing it open slowly.
The scene inside froze every drop of blood in my veins.
Luke stood in the center of the room, his back to me.
His expensive white dress shirt was soaked through with blood, transformed into a vivid, sickening crimson.
Blood dripped from his fingertips—one drop, then another—striking the pristine floor and spreading into small, horrifying pools of red.
His rigid body slowly turned toward me.
That devastatingly handsome face was smeared with streaks of blood that didn't belong to him, making his complexion look deathly pale, his lips completely colorless.
Those eyes that usually churned with intense emotion now held only hollow confusion, as if shrouded in gray fog, unable to find focus.
"Emily." He said my name hoarsely, walking toward me.
With each step he took forward, I involuntarily retreated one step back.
The heels of my shoes struck the cold floor with crisp, panicked clicks that echoed through the deathly silent room, as if providing percussion for my terror.
"Don't come any closer!" My voice shook uncontrollably. "What happened? What the hell is going on?"
My questioning made him stop.
Luke looked down at his blood-covered hands in bewilderment, then at the carnage around him. The fog in his eyes grew thicker.
"I don't know." He shook his head. "When I came out... it was already like this."
I stared at him, at that face written with innocence and confusion, but my heart felt as if an invisible hand was crushing it, the pain suffocating.
Logic told me that besides us, there were no survivors on this ship. He was the only suspect.
But emotionally, I couldn't connect the fragile man before me—who looked like he'd shatter at a touch—with the massacre outside.
Luke seemed to see through my panic. In those hollow eyes, finally, a trace of bitter ripples appeared.
"Do you think..." He looked at me, each word coming with extreme difficulty, "that I killed them?"
I didn't answer.
My silence was like the sharpest blade, instantly piercing through all his defenses.
Luke's tall body swayed, as if unable to support itself any longer, and he collapsed straight toward me.
I instinctively stepped forward and caught him.
His heavy body crashed into my arms, and only then did I realize his forehead was burning hot. This wasn't normal body temperature—it was more like a high fever.
His entire weight leaned against me, his consciousness seeming to scatter, his mouth mumbling something I couldn't make out.
He was sick.
This realization wrenched my heart, and my earlier fear and suspicion were instantly replaced by a stronger wave of heartache.
Using every ounce of strength, I half-dragged, half-carried him to the lounge sofa.
His body was heavy. The blood on his shirt smeared all over me, that thick metallic scent nearly suffocating me, but I no longer cared.
I remembered there was bottled water and clean towels in the room.
I frantically searched for them, dampened a towel, and carefully wiped the blood from his face.
As the bloodstains were gradually cleaned away, his pale, haggard face was fully revealed. His brow was tightly furrowed, and even in unconsciousness, he seemed to be enduring tremendous pain.
My movements were gentle, afraid of disturbing him.
When I wiped his chest, my fingers accidentally touched a cold, hard object.
My heart skipped. I reached into his shirt pocket.
I pulled out a handgun.
It was the same one he'd used in the storage room, the one with a silencer.
The gun still carried his body heat, but when I instinctively ejected the magazine, my pupils constricted sharply.
It was completely empty.
An empty gun, a ship full of corpses, and one delirious survivor burning with fever.
Every piece of evidence was like a poisoned needle, stabbing into my mind, puncturing the fragile trust I'd just built.
Terror made my hand shake, and the water basin beside me tipped over, crashing to the floor with a piercing sound.
The man on the sofa stirred at the noise. His long lashes trembled, and he slowly opened his eyes.
His gaze was still unfocused, wandering around the room for a long moment before hazily settling on me.
I could see the flash of joy in his eyes, but that joy was quickly replaced by the undisguised terror on my face.
I dropped the gun as if burned, scrambling backward, then turned and ran out of the room without looking back.
I didn't dare turn around, yet I could almost feel that burning gaze on my back.
In my fleeing figure, Luke looked at the gun lying on the floor, looked at the fear covering my face, and his lips curved into a bitter smile before his head tilted and he lost consciousness completely.
---
I ran through the corridor like a madwoman, tears mixed with terror blurring my vision.
Call the police—I had to call the police immediately!
I rushed back to our original room, frantically searching through Luke's jacket and pulling out his phone.
But when I pressed the power button, the bright red "No Signal" notification on the screen shattered my last hope.
We were in international waters, with no signal. We were completely cut off from the world.
I collapsed to the floor, hugging my knees, my body shaking like a leaf in the wind.
What should I do? What the hell should I do?
'Stay calm, Emily. You have to stay calm.'
I told myself.
Now wasn't the time to fall apart. Luke's condition was very wrong, this ship was strange in every way—I had to find a way to save myself.
The bridge! There must be a satellite phone or radio there!
The thought flashed through my mind. I grabbed onto this last straw of hope, immediately scrambling to my feet and running toward the top deck where the captain's control room should be.
The corridor remained deathly silent, filled only with my hurried footsteps and gasping breaths.
I pushed open one door after another, stepped over one cold corpse after another. Fear had numbed me.
Finally, I saw the heavy metal door of the bridge.
I took a deep breath, preparing to push it open, when suddenly, from the bottomless darkness behind me, without any warning, came the sound of clear footsteps.
The footsteps were unhurried, carrying a strange rhythm, and in this corridor of death lined with bodies, they rang out as clearly as if they were stepping on my heartbeat.
I whipped around.
Behind me was endless darkness. No one.
The sound seemed to appear from nowhere and vanish into nowhere, as if it were just a hallucination born from my terror reaching its peak.
But that feeling of being watched, that cold dread, clung to me like a curse I couldn't shake.