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I don't beg for myself.
I should. I should be pleading for my life, for another chance to make it out of here, for the pain in my stomach to stop, for time to rewind so none of this ever happened. But the only thing that spills from my lips is a name.
"Zayn."
Madden pauses, just for a second, his grip tightening around the knife. My breath is shallow, weak, but I force myself to speak, even as my vision blurs.
"Please," I whisper. "You want revenge. I get it. But not like this. Not on him."
Madden scoffs, shaking his head. "You still don't get it, do you?" His voice is filled with frustration, like I'm an idiot for trying. "I'm not hurting him. I'm making sure the world sees him for what he truly is."
My body trembles, but it's not just from the pain anymore. It's from the overwhelming realization hitting me all at once. I'm not pleading because I need to live. I'm pleading because I need Zayn to be okay.
Because I care about him.
Too much. More than I should. More than I ever thought I did.
I don't know when it happened—when the rivalry faded into something more, something deeper. Maybe it was the moment we were trapped together, breaking into the library, but still standing side by side. Maybe it was long before that. Maybe it was always there, simmering beneath all the taunts and stolen glances and sharp words.
It doesn't matter now. Because I won't get the chance to tell him.
Madden steps forward, the knife glinting under the dim light.
I close my eyes.
Then—
A loud crash.
The door to the secret passage swings open with a force that shakes the walls. Before I can process what's happening, Madden is ripped away from me, tackled to the ground.
Harry.
The knife clatters against the floor as Madden struggles beneath him, but Harry is stronger, fueled by something more powerful than rage—desperation.
"Ali, call the police!" Harry shouts, his voice sharp with urgency.
Zayn is already at my side before I can blink. His hands are on me, one cradling my face, the other pressing against my wound. A sharp gasp escapes me, the pressure sending a fresh wave of pain through my body.
"Shit, shit—Izzy, stay with me," he murmurs, his voice low, panicked. I can barely see him through my blurry vision, but I can feel him. His warmth, his presence, the way he's holding me together—literally and figuratively.
"I'm sorry," I breathe out. My voice is barely there, just a whisper against the chaos around us.
His brows furrow. "For what?"
"For leaving."
Zayn swallows hard, his jaw clenching. Then, slowly, he leans in, pressing his forehead against mine. His breath is unsteady. His hands—coated in my blood—trembling.
"You don't get to apologize for that," he whispers.
I try to hold on. I really do.
But I can feel it slipping—my grip on him, my grip on this moment, my grip on everything.
"Zayn," I whisper one last time, my voice barely audible. His name tastes like home on my tongue, like something I should have said more often.
He squeezes me tighter. "No. Izzy, stay awake." His voice is shaking. "You're gonna be fine, okay? Just hold on. The ambulance is coming. Please."
I want to. God, I want to. But it's getting so hard to keep my eyes open.
So I let them close.
And everything fades.
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