104: Chapter 104 He finally fell asleep.

Bang!

Sean's fist smashed into Donovan's chest.

It wasn't a random strike; he had aimed for the gap between the ribs, a technique designed to let the power penetrate through skin and flesh to hit the internal organs directly.

Donovan's eyes widened, a mouthful of blood sprayed from his lips, and he flew backward, crashing into the wall.

The wall cracked, lime dust cascaded down, and he slumped to the floor, twitching once before failing to stand back up.

The room fell silent.

Broken glass glinted on the floor, and the curtains fluttered in the night breeze.

Donovan lay at the base of the wall, his chest caved in, blood hanging from the corner of his mouth, eyes half-open as he stared at the ceiling.

He wasn't dead yet; the Vampire's Self-Healing was working, slowly mending the wounds, but it would take time.

Sean stood by the bed, panting heavily.

The golden light slowly faded, merging back into his skin.

His hands were shaking—not from fear, but from the aftershock of delivering a full-power blow.

He looked down at Donovan, whose grey eyes were filled with confusion.

He looked like someone suddenly jolted awake from a dream, not knowing where he was or what he was doing.

To put it simply, he had been beaten into a daze.

Sean didn't look at him.

He walked over to Ballard's side and knelt down.

Ballard was sprawled on the floor, clutching her neck and gasping for air.

Her face turned from purple to red, then red to white; tears shimmered in her eyes but didn't fall. She had indeed been put through quite an ordeal.

Sean asked with concern, "Are you okay?"

Ballard nodded.

She propped herself up on the floor, leaning against a bedpost as she looked at Donovan by the wall. "Who is he?"

"One of Elizabeth's people."

Sean answered, stood up, walked over to Donovan, and looked down at him. "You almost killed her."

Donovan looked at him, his confusion dissipating into sadness. "Just kill me. She won't cry for me; she won't cry for anyone."

Sean didn't say anything.

He looked at Donovan, considering whether or not to finish him off.

After a long moment, Sean turned, walked back to the bed, and picked up his phone.

He sent a message to Elizabeth, then turned back to Donovan. "You can go."

Donovan was stunned for a moment. "You're not killing me?"

Sean looked at him. "If I kill you, Elizabeth will come looking for me, and I don't want to owe her anything else."

Donovan laughed at that, though the smile was ugly and bitter.

"You're just as stupid as I am." He used the wall to pull himself up; his chest was still bleeding, but the wound had already begun to close.

He walked to the window, glanced back at Sean, and then at Ballard.

"She won't care about me."

He repeated it, then vaulted out of the window and disappeared into the night.

Sean could tell that Donovan was truly heartbroken!

It was just...

Why was a Vampire so emotional?

This wasn't Twilight!

Sean complained inwardly. Beside him, Ballard had recovered; she stood next to him and said, "You should have killed him."

Sean shook his head. "If I killed him, Elizabeth wouldn't let it go. Besides... Elizabeth will know about this, and she'll definitely keep him under control."

Ballard didn't respond.

She turned, walked to the desk, picked up her backpack, and began putting the scattered documents inside.

Her movements were as efficient as ever, as if nothing had happened.

But Sean saw her hands shaking. It was normal, after all—she had nearly died, so it was only natural to be afraid.

Sean wanted to offer some words of comfort, but he saw Ballard suddenly drop her bag and then abruptly pull him into an embrace.

It wasn't a polite, gentle hug.

It was tight, her arms locking around his waist, her face buried in his chest, her whole body pressed against him like a drowning person clinging to a piece of driftwood.

Sean froze.

His hands hovered in the air, unsure of where to go.

"Ballard..." he began.

"Don't talk." Her voice was muffled against his chest, husky and low.

She held him even tighter, her fingers gripping the back of his shirt so hard her knuckles turned white.

Sean felt her body trembling, and then she whispered, "I don't care how many women you have. Tonight, I want to be with you."

Sean looked down at her. She didn't look up, her face still buried in his chest, hiding her expression. But his hands dropped, resting lightly on her back. Her body stiffened for a moment, then relaxed.

Sean knew she had been severely shaken by the shock.

Ballard had never needed anyone; she had carried the burden alone for too long—investigating cases alone, facing the darkness alone.

She thought she didn't need anyone, but tonight, when Donovan's hand was around her throat, she thought she was going to die.

What did she think of at that moment?

She thought of Sean.

Sean felt Ballard's emotions and naturally didn't hesitate.

He bent down, one arm around her waist and the other under her legs, lifting her up.

In that moment, Ballard felt as light as if she had no weight at all.

She didn't struggle or speak; she just buried her face in his neck, her arms circling his shoulders.

Sean laid her on the bed.

The mattress creaked, and Ballard's black hair fanned out across the pillow, shimmering in the dim light.

Moonlight streamed in through the broken window, illuminating her face, her hair, and her slightly open collar.

Sean lowered his head.

For the rest, no words were needed.

...

When Sean woke up the next day, sunlight was already streaming in through the broken window.

It was bright white and piercing.

He squinted and glanced beside him; the bed was empty, with an indentation on the pillow and the corner of the quilt pulled back.

Ballard was gone.

He sat up and looked around the room.

The documents on the desk were all gone, her backpack was missing, and that dark blue windbreaker was no longer on the hanger.

Only a note lay on the nightstand, held down by a glass.

He picked it up; it was Ballard's handwriting—scrawled, but every word was clear.

"Gone to the station. I'll handle the follow-up on the case myself. Go back to New Orleans. Safe travels — B."

Sean folded the note and put it in his pocket.

He got out of bed, dressed, and washed up.

In the bathroom, there was a new toothbrush, still sealed, sitting on a cup.

A sticky note was attached next to it: "New."

He opened it, brushed his teeth, and washed his face.

He looked at himself in the mirror; there was a dried blood scab at the corner of his mouth.

Ballard had caused that last night. He had to admit, the woman was indeed a bit wild in that regard.

He washed it off with water, dried his face, and walked out of the bathroom.

He was the only one left in the room.

The curtains fluttered in the morning breeze. The broken glass was still on the floor, un-swept. Sean took the initiative to tidy up a bit before picking up his travel bag, stuffing his things inside, zipping it up, and heading out to drive back to New Orleans.

On the way, Sean gassed up twice, ate two burgers at the roadside, and drank several cups of black coffee.

Sean swore that next time he went on a long-distance trip, he definitely wouldn't drive himself.

It was too much of a struggle!

It wasn't until it was nearly dark that the skyline of New Orleans reappeared on the horizon...