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Chapter 318
Chapter 318:
“Manageable,” Crawford said, lying smoothly. He studied her pale face, searching carefully for any signs of distress, deliberately restraining himself from pressing her in any way. He wanted to be her sanctuary, not another source of pressure.
Before June could respond, the heavy hospital door swung open — not kicked this time, but pushed slowly, heavily, as though the person entering carried the entire weight of the world on his shoulders.
Cole stepped into the room.
June turned her head.
He looked absolutely horrific. His face was the color of dirty ash. Deep purple shadows hung beneath his bloodshot eyes. He wore the same wrinkled trousers from the night before, his dress shirt only half-buttoned, his chest exposed. He carried the faint, stale smell of alcohol and despair.
Cole stopped just inside the doorway.
He looked at June standing beside Crawford’s bed. The image of the bloodstained sheet flashed across his mind, burning itself behind his eyes.
The temperature of the room seemed to drop instantly. No one spoke. The silence was thick and suffocating.
Cole swallowed hard. His throat clicked audibly in the quiet.
𝘚𝘁𝘰𝗿𝗂e𝘴 𝘺𝗼𝗎 𝘄о𝘯’t p𝘶t d𝗼𝘄ո 𝗈ո
“June,” he whispered. His voice was completely broken — the sound of a man asking for his own execution.
June turned her entire body to face him.
She looked directly into his eyes.
Cole flinched as though struck.
Her eyes were completely empty. No anger. No hatred. Absolutely nothing. It was the ultimate, terrifying void of total apathy — the gaze of someone looking at a stranger who had accidentally walked into the wrong room.
June said nothing.
She turned her head back to Crawford.
“I will come back tomorrow morning to check on your vitals,” she said, her voice calm and professional.
She adjusted her handbag on her good shoulder and walked toward the door — directly toward Cole.
As she approached, Cole’s right hand twitched. His fingers curled inward. Every instinct in his body screamed at him to reach out, to grab her wrist, to drop to his knees and beg her to look at him with anything other than that terrifying emptiness.
He raised his hand slightly.
But the image of the blood on the sheets paralyzed him. He was too dirty. Too broken. He had no right to touch her ever again.
His hand dropped limply to his side.
June walked directly past him. She did not alter her path. She did not speed up or slow down. She did not spare him so much as a sideways glance.
Her footsteps faded down the hallway and disappeared.
Cole stood frozen in the doorway, staring at the empty space she had just occupied. He felt as though his soul had been torn from his body.
From the hospital bed, Crawford watched the entire display in silence.
He leaned his head back against the pillows and took in the full picture — the ruined clothes, the smell of alcohol, the absolute devastation carved into Cole’s face.
A low, dark chuckle escaped his chest.
“You look like hell, Compton,” Crawford said, his voice laced with icy contempt. “Tell me — whose bed did you crawl out of to look this pathetic p>
The words landed like a sniper’s bullet.