The faint, metallic scent of blood hung in the air, and it was impossible to tell if it was hers or his.


    "Is it serious?" Bet asked again.


    "I should... live," Yvonne replied, her voice slightly hoarse and tinged with self- deprecation.


    Bet said nothing more. He sat down beside her, maintaining a polite social distance.


    A long silence stretched between them, so profound that time itself seemed to stand still.


    Bet leaned his straight back against the wall, closing his eyes to rest.


    An unknown amount of time passed before a soft moan escaped the person next to him.


    Bet''s eyes snapped open, and he turned to look at Yvonne. Her eyes were squeezed shut, her cheeks flushed an unnatural crimson, and her forehead was beaded with cold sweat.


    "Yvonne, what''s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low and deep as he called her


    name.


    Yvonne''s eyes fluttered open instinctively. Her beautiful, almond-shaped eyes were hazy, her gaze unfocused as she looked at him.


    “Ben, I feel so sick," Yvonne murmured, her lips trembling with a childlike vulnerability. She was clearly delirious with fever, unable to distinguish past from present.


    After speaking, she habitually reached out to tug on the hem of Bet''s shirt.


    Bet''s dark pupils contracted, and he instinctively gripped her hand. "What did you call me? Who are you, really?"


    The sharp pain from her wrist brought a sliver of rity back to Yvonne. Her eyshes trembled as her vision slowly focused on him.


    "Who am I? Hasn''t Mr. Bet Thompson already looked into that?" Yvonne let out


    a soft, mockingugh and shook his hand off her wrist.


    Bet''s eyes remained fixed on her, as if trying to see right through her.


    Of course, he had investigated her. Yvonne''s history matched everything she had told him, but it wasn''t without its ws.


    "The Yvonne I knew could never fight like that."


    "Then who could? Or, who do you


    want me to be?" Yvonne asked,


    looking at him with a ghost of


    sme. But her vision was


    again, her mind going nk.


    The next moment, her body went limp, and she copsed against him.


    "Yvonne!" Bet caught her, his arm wrapping around her. He was shocked to find her body burning up; the wound she''d sustained must have gotten infected.


    In truth, the cuts on Yvonne''s shoulder and arm weren''t deep. The old Yvonne could


    have shrugged them off and been ready for another hundred rounds.


    But this body was naturally frail and had never been properly cared for. It was


    fragile, and a minor injury was enough to trigger a raging fever.


    "Yvonne, Yvonne!" Bet called her name several times, his voice rising, but she remained unconscious.


    Unconscious with a high fever—her situation was clearly bing dangerous.


    They were trapped in the basement


    with the door locked from the


    outside, and their phones had no signal. By the time anyone realized they were missing and found them, Yvonne might have already suffered permanent brain damage from the fever.


    Bet''s brow furrowed deeper.


    He wrapped his jacket tightly around Yvonne, propping her against the wall.


    Then he stood up, walked over to


    single, sealed ss window, and He


    balled his hand into it and the


    smashed it against the ss, again and again, until it shattered.


    His hand was sliced open by the shards, blood dripping freely.


    But Bet paid it no mind. He took out his phone, stretched his arm as far as he


    could out the broken window, and finally, the signal bars appeared.