...
The first bang on the door came like thunder.
Amara's laughter died instantly. Bella's wine glass slipped from her fingers, shattering against the floor. Jane sat up, her face tightening, her fearless gaze locked on the door.
A second bang—harder, more violent—shook the walls.
"Who the hell—" Jane began, but another bang cut her off.
The third strike was deafening.
The door crashed open, slamming against the wall with brutal force.
They stormed in—four masked men, dressed in black, guns drawn, their voices sharp and commanding.
"Get down! Nobody moves!"
Screams erupted.
Bella dropped to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. Amara's body froze in terror as one of the men grabbed her roughly, dragging her toward him.
But Jane didn't cower.
Fierce as ever, with that reckless, fiery American defiance, she stood between Amara and the gunman.
"Let her go!" Jane shouted, shoving the man back, her voice loud and fearless. "You bastards think you can barge in here? Take what you want! You're not touching her!"
"Shut her up," the leader growled coldly.
The gun turned.
One shot. Sharp. Final.
Jane's body jerked violently, her words cut short as a dark stain spread across her chest.
She collapsed to the floor, lifeless.
The room fell into silence—except for Bella's terrified sobs and Amara's breathless gasps.
The masked men didn't linger. They vanished into the night, leaving the door hanging open, the stench of gunpowder thick in the air.
Amara dropped to her knees, crawling toward Jane's body, her hands shaking as she cradled her fallen friend.
"Jane… No… Please, no…" Her voice cracked, but Jane's eyes were already empty—staring into nothingness.
That night, something inside Amara shattered forever.
But outside that bloodstained apartment, far from the screams and sirens, a quiet truth lingered in the shadows.
Someone had wanted her dead.
And they got what they wanted.
It is even easier to never be found.