CHAPTER 138: MY WAY OR THE HIGHWAY ( EMILIANO’S POV )

The scalpel struck again — not the chest, not the heart — but the leg.

A second stab.

Deeper this time.

Just below the first.

Pain vibrated through the limb. My knee buckled. I went down hard, one arm flailing for balance, the other locking instinctively around the fresh wound.

Still no artery. He missed it again.

No — he avoided it.

Luther wasn’t lashing out blindly.

He wanted me to feel it.

But he didn’t want to kill me. That means at least one petal will stay intact.

The scalpel clattered to the ground between us. He didn’t try to pick it up. Didn’t move toward me.

His hands were trembling again. He backed away, shoulders pressed to the wall, eyes locked on me like I was some kind of monster.

His mouth opened, but no words came out.

He was panting.

Shaking.

His knuckles were white against the wall.

I held pressure to the wound. Heat pulsed from it in waves, blood soaking the fabric. My fingers felt slick, sticky.

Luther wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. There was blood there too — his own, from his cracked lip. It looked darker than mine.

He didn’t look at Subject 43 again.He just looked at me— scared, angry, betrayed.

"I am not like you."

Luther turned and bolted out the door.

I didn’t chase him. Not yet.

Pain was still roaring up my thigh, hot and angry, radiating with each pulse of my heart. I clutched the wound, watching as he stumbled into the next room — the observation chamber where Subject 43 was restrained.

I heard the suction machine still running.

I heard Luther’s breath catch.

Then silence.

I dragged myself to the wall and leaned against it. My fingers fumbled with the buttons on my coat. I yanked it off, gritted my teeth, and ripped a long strip from the hem.

The pain nearly made me blackout, but I kept going. I wrapped the strip around my thigh, tight.

Too tight.

My leg spasmed.

I pressed harder. The blood slowed. Not stopped — but managed.

When I finally limped to the doorway and looked inside, Luther was standing over the restrained man. Subject 43’s head had slumped forward.

His jaw had decayed further, splitting at one hinge. The mouth still gaped unnaturally, tongue barely visible — what was left of it. The skin around his chin was collapsing inward, like the bone underneath had already dissolved.

He moved.

Just slightly.

A flicker of muscle. A twitch of his ruined lips.

A sound that was almost a word.

Luther sobbed.

He raised his hands, touched the sides of the man’s head gently, like he was afraid to hurt him — though there was nothing left that wasn’t already hurt.

Then he snapped his neck.

Fast. Clean.

No hesitation.

The body slumped further in the restraints. No more movement.

Luther stood there a second longer, trembling.

Then he turned and ran.

I followed, limping, dragging my leg with every step. The makeshift tourniquet was holding, but barely. Blood still seeped through, dark and slow. I pressed a hand against the wall to steady myself and pushed forward.

I heard drawers slamming open in the adjoining room.

Luther was pulling clothes from the storage cabinet — whatever he could grab. A hoodie. Pants. Someone’s spare uniform. His hands were shaking so hard he dropped the belt twice before threading it through the loops.

Then he bolted again.

Barefoot. No plan. No idea where he is.

Just raw, terrified instinct. He was trying to escape.

And I couldn’t let him.

"Puppy, wait!"

My voice didn’t reach him. Not that I expected him to stop if he actually heard me.

The screams were louder in the hallway.

No walls to muffle them. No steel to keep them contained. They poured into the hallways like smoke, curling around the corners, creeping up the spine.

Some were begging. Some were laughing. Some had lost language entirely. Just sound now — wet, cracked, broken things.

Luther ran ahead of me, sobbing.

I watched his back blur through the haze of flickering overhead lights. He was crying hard, stumbling with each step, his fists clenched like he could hold the pain inside if he just squeezed hard enough. His shoulders shook with each breath. Guilt poured off him like sweat.

Maybe he thought it was his fault.

F-ck.

Our marriage progressed so much until now.

I tried to keep up. I really did. My leg burned with every step — a white-hot tear pulsing just beneath the skin, the kind of pain that makes you nauseous before it makes you faint. The makeshift tourniquet was soaked now, barely holding pressure. I leaned hard on the wall and forced my body forward.

Drag. Limp. Grit teeth. Repeat.

He hit the exit first. A flash of motion. Then he was gone.

I staggered after him.

The door opened with a hiss, and forest air punched into my face — warm, damp, thick with the scent of moss and distant rain. I saw the trees swallowing him, his form weaving between trunks, ducking branches. His feet were bleeding now. I could see the red on leaves he crushed underfoot.

Still, he didn’t stop.

I kept moving. I didn’t know how. Each step felt like it would be the last. The pain had settled into a dull roar — constant, consuming.

The forest clawed at me with every branch. My coat caught on bark and bramble. The ground was uneven, roots catching my shoes, wet earth pulling me down. I kept my hands on the trees, half to balance, half to keep from collapsing.

Then I saw the light ahead.

Bright, sterile. Unnatural.

The treeline broke.

And there he was — just a dark figure staggering into the open, out onto asphalt. The highway.

He dropped to his knees, then rose again like he was being hunted. Maybe he was.

One way or another I had to bring my puppy home.

I stepped out after him.

Slower.

Each movement cost something. My leg was trembling. I could feel warmth spilling down it again. No time left. I pressed forward, heart slamming against my ribs, eyes locked on his silhouette.

"Puppy, stop, please!"

"One more step and I will throw myself into the traffic!"