Flora’s Guide to a Second Chance at Love and Life

He was on the edge, barely holding it together. From the moment he heard about Flora's accident, he felt like he was losing his grip on reality. Flora sensed the tremors running through him, and though her arm throbbed less, a tightness gripped her heart, making it hard to breathe. Connor had the doctor come by to check on Flora again. Her bandage was soaked through with blood, and the doctor carefully replaced it. As the bandage came off, her arm lay bare, a mess of wounds. Connor felt a crushing weight in his chest, a pain that nearly took his breath away. Rage boiled inside him.

Even the doctor, seasoned as he was, winced at the severity of the injury. It was the kind of wound that made anyone hurt just by looking at it. Yet, Flora's face didn't betray any pain.

Once the doctor had finished, he handed over some painkillers and antibiotics. They'd ease her discomfort, but the painkillers made her drowsy, and before long, she was asleep. Connor watched her for a bit, then slipped out of the room quietly. Moss was waiting outside. "To the basement," Connor instructed.

"Right away."

The basement was a world apart-damp and shadowy. A man was shackled, kneeling on the cold floor, his body a canvas of brutal injuries. His fingernails had been forcibly removed, and long, thin needles stuck into the raw skin.

"Ready to talk?" Beck loomed over him, pressing a booted foot onto the man's face. The man lay there, half his face submerged in a grimy pool of blood, defiant as ever. "I won't talk! Do your worst; I'll say nothing!"

He knew that if he spilled anything, his usefulness would evaporate, and with it, his life. Keeping silent was his only play, a gamble for precious time, maybe even a slim chance at survival.

Beck was about to push harder when footsteps echoed behind him. Turning, he saw Connor and snapped to attention. "Boss."

Connor walked by, casually taking Beck's gun from him. The basement seemed to shrink under Connor's presence, the air thick with tension. Everyone knew Connor's reputation on Lone Island his mere presence was enough to instill dread and panic.

The man expected Connor to

interrogate him like Beck did, but Connor didn't ask a single question. He just looked down at him, as if the

man was nothing more than a stray dog.

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Connor tapped the gun against his palm. The silence in the basement made the sound echo, each tap like a hammer against the man's already fraying nerves.

"Boss, this guy's tough; he won't

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budge!" Beck admitted, frustration tinging his voice. Nearly thirty.

minutes of grilling, and they were no closer to breaking him.

"Then don't ask."

The man's head snapped up in shock. Don't ask? What was going on?

Connor's approach was anything but conventional. Didn't he care who was pulling the strings? Panic crept in where defiance had been.

His imagined leverage seemed worthless to Connor. Still, he clung to the hope that Connor was bluffing. But then the gun pointed his way.

"Bang!"

The bullet tore through his right hand, and his scream filled the basement, raw and piercing.

Connor's expression didn't change. Another "Bang!" and the bullet found his left hand.

"Do you know how many shots it takes to kill someone, avoiding the vital spots?" Connor's voice was calm, almost casual, but it

thundered in the man's ears, fear exploding in his mind.

He realized with chilling clarity that Connor meant to kill him. "You can't kill me! If you do, you'll never find out who's behind this!"