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89: Blood on hands

Exhaling, Rafael ran a hand over his jaw, attempting to dismiss my concerns. "Don't worry about it, babe," he said casually.

Refusing to let the matter drop, I grabbed his shirt and held it up to his face. "You were covered in blood, Rafael. If it wasn't yours, then whose was it?"

He chuckled, avoiding my gaze and staring down at his hands. Though they appeared clean now, a lingering feeling persisted that they hadn't been earlier. My mind couldn't shake the image of a gruesome massacre. Frustrated, I confronted him, stating, "I may not have all the answers, but I'm involved whether you like it or not."

He turned his head, giving me a commanding look that silenced my protests.

Seeking solace, I turned my gaze towards the French doors, observing the vibrant colors of the dawning day. It was a symbol of new beginnings, but the fear of what the day held in store clung to me. Changes were coming—changes that brought with them new rules and horrors.

In a span of just twenty-four hours,
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