A letter to the post man

I slept soundly in the room Damian gave me—a rare comfort I hadn't felt in days. Exhaustion weighed heavily on me, and for the first time in what felt like forever, I let myself drift into a deep, undisturbed sleep. I didn't dream; I simply surrendered to the darkness, hoping it would shield me from the nightmares of my reality.

Everyone believed I was the woman in the photograph—the one they were hunting, the one who had committed unspeakable crimes. Everyone, that is, except Damian. Somehow, he saw through the lies. He knew it wasn't me. His calm, piercing gaze told me that he didn't need proof; he just believed me.

But that didn't stop the others. They were relentless, their paranoia growing by the hour. The police were already on the hunt, closing in on us, and the group decided they had no choice but to flee the area. The tension in the house was palpable. Every creak of the floorboards, every distant sound of sirens set them on edge. Worse still, Carl had managed to escape . If he talked to the police, it was over for all of us.

"We leave at first light," one of the men had said the night before, his voice gruff and low.

That decision sealed my fate. They decided to take me along, unwilling to leave loose ends. My presence had been a source of conflict among them from the start. Some argued that I was innocent, a mere pawn in someone else's game. Others were certain I was guilty and deserved every ounce of torment they had planned for me.

As the group debated my future, Damian stepped in.

"Leave her to me," he said firmly, his voice cold and commanding. "I'll deal with her."

The other men bristled at his tone. One of them, a wiry man with narrowed eyes, sneered. "What do you see in her, Damian? Why are you defending her?"

Damian didn't answer. His anger was evident in the rigid line of his jaw, the way his fists clenched at his sides. Without another word, he stormed out of the room. The others watched him go, muttering among themselves, their suspicion of him growing.

Another man walks into the room they thought they kept me captive to his surprise I was not there .

"Where is she?" one of the men barked, panic flashing across his face.

Damian's reply was sharp and dismissive. "She's in my room."

A smug grin spread across the man's face. "Oh, you should have said something. If you wanted to spend the night with her, I wouldn't have pressed any further."

Their laughter was cruel, but Damian ignored it. He had a way of making even the most hardened men back down with nothing more than a glare. One of them—a tall, sleek man with a calculating gaze—placed a hand on Damian's shoulder as the others began to disperse.

"Get her ready to leave first thing tomorrow," he said quietly.

Damian nodded, his expression unreadable.

When he entered the room where I was asleep, his demeanor softened. For a moment, he just stood there, watching me. My face, pale and bruised, was partially hidden by the tangled mess of my hair. He walked over to the side of the bed and crouched down, his hand hesitating in the air before gently stroking my hair.

"I won't let them touch you," he whispered, more to himself than to me.

I stirred in my sleep, a soft whimper escaping my lips. Tears had dried on my cheeks, evidence of a night filled with quiet sobs. He sat there for a long while, silently watching over me. The guilt in his eyes was unmistakable. He reached for the small first-aid kit he had brought with him and carefully checked my wounds. His touch was gentle, but even so, I flinched in my sleep. He paused, his hand hovering over the bandages, before continuing with painstaking care.

When he was done, he sat back and rested his head against the wall, letting out a heavy sigh. How had things come to this? He closed his eyes, listening to the sound of my breathing, steady and fragile.

The peace didn't last long.

I woke the next morning to chaos. The sound of gunshots shattered the silence, followed by the panicked shouts of men. My heart raced as I sat up, disoriented. The room was a mess, furniture overturned, papers scattered across the floor. My first thought was to find Damian.

I stumbled out of the room, my legs shaky beneath me. The hallway was eerily empty, but the sound of gunfire grew louder as I made my way toward the main part of the house. My mind raced with questions. What was happening? Had the police found us? Or was this something worse?

As I turned a corner, I nearly collided with Damian. His face was grim, his eyes burning with urgency. Without a word, he grabbed my hand and pulled me into a nearby room, shutting the door behind us.

"What's going on?" I whispered, my voice trembling.

"It's Carl," he said, his tone clipped. "He told them where we are. The police are here."

I should have felt relieved ,but I hesitated to let then police rescue me I had an urge to listen to Damian .

Damian hesitated, his jaw tightening. "I'll get you out of here. But you have to trust me."

Before I could respond, the door burst open. One of the men from the group stood there, his gun raised, his eyes wild.

"She's not going anywhere," he snarled.

Damian stepped in front of me, shielding me with his body. "Stay out of this," he said, his voice low and dangerous.

The man hesitated, clearly torn between his fear of Damian and his orders. In that moment, I realized just how much power Damian held over them. He wasn't just one of them—he was their leader. Or at least, he had been.

"Damian…" I whispered, clutching his arm.

He turned to me, his expression softening for the briefest of moments. "I won't let them hurt you," he promised.

The man lowered his gun, muttering a curse under his breath before storming out.

Damian turned back to me, his hand gripping mine tightly. "Stay close," he said. "We're getting out of here."