Barista Pov
My heart slammed against my ribs as if it were trying to claw its way out of my chest.
"What are you saying?" My voice cracked. I didn't even recognize it.
Eric's eyes locked with mine—stormy, steady. "Give me your permission to pull her out of the Well of Misery. I need to save her."
I just… stood there. The words hit like a blade, clean and cruel.
Save her.
"Uncle…" My throat tightened, and I could barely push the words past it. "You can't save her. It's too late."
My voice sounded hollow. Empty. Like all the fight in me had rotted away. "She won't make it. Her wounds are too deep, and you know she's wolfless. She can't heal." I dragged a hand over my face, nails digging into my skin as if pain could make this real. "It's useless trying to save her now."
"No, Batista," Eric said softly, but there was steel behind it. "She won't die easily… there's more to her than meets the eye."
I let out a bitter, cracked laugh. "And what the hell is that supposed to mean?" I couldn't look at him. I just stared at the floor, at the dark whiskey stains on the wooden boards like dried blood. "Even if… even if by some miracle she survives," I whispered, "if the pack sees her, it will undermine everything. They'll see it as weakness."
My breath came fast. Too fast. I started pacing like a madman, like if I moved fast enough, I could outrun the guilt clinging to my skin like smoke.
"Even if I send her away to another pack, all it takes is one scout, one damn whisper, and I'll lose control. The council would turn on me. The warriors would question me. I can't—" My voice cracked again. "I can't lose everything I bled for."
"She won't stay here," Eric said, crouching slightly, eyes calculating. "And I won't send her to another pack."
I froze. "Then where?"
He looked up. Straight at me. "I will take her to the Wasteland."
Silence fell so hard I felt it in my bones.
My lungs forgot how to breathe.
"The Wasteland?" I repeated, barely above a whisper. "You want to take her to that place?"
Even saying the name made my skin crawl.
"The Evil Wood?" I took a step back, as if I could distance myself from the madness. "Uncle, we don't even send our enemies there. There are things in that forest that don't just kill—they consume. Rip the soul from the body and scatter it to the shadows. If she dies there, she won't return to the ancestors. Her soul will vanish into the void. That's worse than death. That's—" I couldn't finish. I just shook my head.
Eric didn't flinch. "She won't die."
My voice broke. "And you're so sure of this because…?"
He hesitated. Just for a second. "Because her destiny is too strong."
I stared at him like he'd gone mad.
"What the hell does that even mean?" I snapped. "Destiny doesn't stop blood loss. Destiny doesn't put a heart back together after it's been shattered. Destiny doesn't—" I swallowed the rest of it. Destiny didn't stop her from hating me.
Eric stepped closer, lowering his voice like he was trying not to wake a ghost. "Just let me go, Batista. I promise—I'll tell you everything when I return."
I didn't speak. I couldn't. I stared at the dying fire in the hearth. The embers cracked and whispered like they were mourning her too.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours. I couldn't tell. I finally nodded. A small, reluctant dip of my chin.
"Okay," I said hoarsely. "But no one can see you."
A small smile tugged at his lips. "Don't worry. I'll go at midnight."
He stepped closer and… kissed my forehead.
It shattered something in me.
"You know you're like a son to me, right?" he said, his voice gentle, rough with emotion.
I swallowed, hard. The lump in my throat made it nearly impossible. I just nodded once, short and tight.
"Thank you," he murmured. He set the whiskey bottle down with care, then turned toward the door.
His footsteps faded.
The door clicked shut behind him.
And I collapsed onto the chair like my spine had been snapped in two.
My face dropped into my hands. The breath I let out shook my whole body, and when it finally escaped, it dragged a broken sound with it.
I couldn't stop seeing her. Her face. Her eyes when she looked at me like I was the executioner of her world.
The scent of her blood still clung to my skin.
The screams still echoed in my skull.
I hoped I was doing the right thing.
Gods help me…
I hoped.
Because if I wasn't—
Then I had just signed her second death warrant.
And this time, I wouldn't survive it either.
Got it, Alee. I'll adjust Eric's voice to reflect a more grounded, mature tone—still with natural sarcasm and dry wit, but fitting a man in his mid-forties who's seen a lot and doesn't play around when things get serious. The emotion, suspense, and pacing will still be sharp, but with more weight and depth. Here's the revised scene:
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Midnight Rescue (Eric's POV)
Midnight.
Figures.
There's something about that hour. The silence is louder. The cold bites deeper. And the darkness? It stops pretending to be anything but what it is—merciless.
I stood at the edge of the Well of Misery, staring down into that godforsaken pit. The thing looked like a mouth carved out of hell itself—black, still, and hungry. The moonlight skimmed its rim, silver on stone, casting long shadows behind me.
I wasn't the kind of man who hesitated. Not anymore. I'd seen too much. Done worse. But this?
This had my gut coiling like barbed wire.
"Rain!" I shouted, leaning forward, the word echoing off the walls before the dark swallowed it whole. "Rain, can you hear me?"
Nothing. Just stillness. Cold and cruel.
Then—
A whisper. A breath.
Barely there, but real.
My jaw clenched. She was alive. Still breathing.
"Get the rope," I told the two standing behind me.
Thomas shifted his weight, eyes narrowed. "You actually going down there?"
"Do you see anyone else volunteering?" I said, not looking at him. My gaze stayed fixed on the well. "Tie it off. That tree'll hold."
"You're not exactly a feather, sir."
I turned, meeting his eyes. "And you're not exactly helping."
He gave a small nod and moved, muttering under his breath.
Greg was already securing the line, quiet and efficient. Good man. I'd trust him with my life. Probably was about to.
Five hundred feet of rope. Same as the well—if the old records were right. Built to bury something ancient. Something that should've stayed buried.
I tested the knot. Tight. No give.
"All right," I muttered. "Feed it in. I want the rest of it down there before I go."
The rope dropped, vanishing into the black like it had somewhere to be.
And then, without ceremony, I swung a leg over the edge and started the descent.
The Descent
Cold met me first. Not the usual kind. This was deeper. Older. It sank into the bones.
The stone walls were slick, breathing moisture, the kind that smelled like mold and rot. My boots scraped against the side as I eased down, every foot earned with grit and slow breath.
My palms burned, arms straining. I hadn't done anything this reckless in years. Not since the last time I thought someone I cared about was going to die.
I didn't let myself think too long. Just moved. One hand below the other. One boot. One breath.
Down.
Down.
Down.
Time lost meaning somewhere around the two-hundred-foot mark. My fingers were going numb. Shoulders ached. The rope creaked above me, groaning like it was tired of my weight.
I kept going.
Then my boot hit something soft.
I dropped the last few inches, landing hard. My knees almost buckled.
It was… squishy.
Wrong.
I turned on my flashlight.
And the breath left my lungs.
Bodies.
Stacked. Twisted. Rotted.
Some were barely bones. Others still had skin, curled tight over their skulls like wax paper. A hand stuck out near my boot, fingers curled like it had died reaching for help.
The stench? Indescribable. It crawled into my nose and settled in the back of my throat. My stomach turned, but I held it down.
I wasn't here for the dead.
I swept the light across the room, and there—on a pile of corpses—was her.
Rain.
Blood-streaked. Pale like death.