"Her choice?" Christian sneered, holding Lina in front of him like a shield. "She didn’t have one the mont she beca mine. I am her world and you’re just passing nobody. Stop interfering between us."
Fredrich tilted his head slightly. "She owes nothing to a man who cages her. You don’t get to play the victim after becoming the villain."
Lina stood frozen between them, heart thundering in her chest. Neither of them saw her—not truly. She was the damsel in distress that needed to be won.
Christian raised a hand, and his n cocked their rifles.
Fredrich didn’t even blink.
Instead, he spoke a single phrase in German.
And from the shadows behind the hangar, another dozen n erged—Fredrich’s elite guard.
For a mont, no one moved. The hangar air was thick, suffocating with tension.
Then the first shot rang out.
Chaos exploded around them—gunfire, shouting, boots slamming against pavent.
Lina dropped to the ground instinctively, crawling behind a stack of crates.
From her vantage point, she saw Christian fire a shot toward Fredrich, just missing him by inches.
Fredrich didn’t draw his own weapon—not yet. He walked forward through the chaos, ducking a bullet with practiced precision, like he knew the rhythm of war.
Finally, the two n stood face to face.
"You’re insane," Christian growled, gun still aid.
"I might be," Fredrich replied, calm as ever. "But I’m not the one who drags won onto planes like property."
Christian lunged.
They collided like they were mortal enemies. The gun fell, skittering across the tarmac as fists replaced words.
Fredrich moved like a trained soldier—controlled, brutal, efficient.
Christian was fast, unpredictable, like a street brawler who fought with desperation instead of precision.
It wasn’t a graceful fight. It was savage. Bloody.
And Lina watched every second.
Blood sared Fredrich’s jaw. Christian’s shirt was torn. One of them landed a punch that sent the other staggering back—but neither yielded.
Christian’s body twisted violently as he slamd his elbow backward into Fredrich’s ribs, the force enough to break the chokehold.
Air rushed back into his lungs, and he staggered a few steps forward, coughing, gasping, wild-eyed.
He wasn’t finished yet.
Whipping around with a snarl, Christian lunged, a blade flashing in his grip—pulled from his boot with the ease of an instinctive killer. His movents were raw, reckless, fueled by rage and desperation.
But Fredrich didn’t flinch.
He was already moving.
There was a cold glint in his eye, the kind that didn’t blink in the face of chaos.
As Christian charged, Fredrich smoothly sidestepped—like water around a fla—and in the sa breath, his hand slid beneath his coat.
A single shot rang out.
Lina scread.
Christian stopped mid-stride. The blade clattered from his fingers, falling uselessly onto the dirt.
His hands went to his side, clutching the dark patch that blood rapidly across his shirt. For a mont, he simply stared—shocked—at the blood on his palms, as if he couldn’t quite believe what had happened.
Then his knees buckled.
He collapsed onto the ground, the impact echoing louder than the gunshot itself.
Fredrich lowered the pistol, eyes still locked on the man before him. Calm. Controlled. Inevitable.
He took a step closer.
Christian’s breaths were shallow now, every inhale a gasp. His lips moved, barely audible.
"Lina . . . ," he whispered, his voice barely more than a breath. His eyes searched for hers—aching, desperate—but instead, he found her running to Fredrich.
Sothing twisted violently in his chest.
And in that mont, the pain of betrayal struck deeper than the bullet ever could.
"Fredrich!" She ran toward him with legs that felt like they might collapse. She threw her arms around him, pressing close. "You’re safe. I—"
His arms circled her, taut and careful. One hand gently stroked her hair. The other held her back.
"I’m more than safe," he whispered, voice low and steady. "Everything is . . ."
He paused, searching her eyes. "Everything is as it should be. Now that you’re here with ."
Lina’s tears pooled, warm and fierce. "I was so scared—I thought I’d lost you, too."
He smiled, impossible and sad. "You didn’t."
She pressed her face against his chest. "You killed him? Are you going to be alright?"
He paused for only a heartbeat, then said softly, "He would’ve killed , Lina. And don’t worry—I have enough power and influence to silence him . . . and his entire family, if needed. You don’t have to be afraid anymore. You’re safe now. With ."
Lina didn’t say anything. She simply let Fredrich pull her into his embrace, her body still, her thoughts miles away.
They stayed like that for a long ti: two souls tethered by relief, and a future forged from obsession and desire.
Behind them, near the shin-high grass, lay Christian. The clutter of weapons, dust, gravel—but still, the grip of his final word lingered in the air: "Lina . . ."
Christian died with jealousy in those last breaths—a furious, broken echo of the woman he claid to love.
Christian never understood love was never asured by possession or pain. It slipped away from him.
And Lina, standing wrapped safely in Fredrich’s arms, watched his body one last ti—not with triumph, but with the hollow ache of consequences.
Even in death, all Christian felt was pain—and jealousy so deep it eclipsed the agony of his wounds.
As his vision faded and breath left his lungs, the last thing he saw was Lina in Fredrich’s arms, not his. That image burned into his final mont, a cruel and bitter truth: she had chosen soone else.
Not once did her eyes turn back to him. Not even a whisper of goodbye.
Until his last heartbeat, Christian couldn’t accept it. Couldn’t accept that the woman he had once held, once loved, was now in the arms of another man.
She choose to be with him. Her choice. And that was what shattered him the most.
Christian died with a heavy heart and unsettled soul, never accepting his death and the idea that Lina would be in the hands of another man.
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