QT: I hijacked a harem system and now I'm ruining every plot(GL)
Chapter 176: Die

Chapter 176: Die

Chapter 176 –

Estela POV

How did we get here?

The forest is too quiet. My ears are ringing with the echo of the gunshot, but I can still hear her voice—low and urgent—cutting through the chaos.

"Go after him, he’ll escape again. I’ll be fine."

"But—" I kneel beside her, my hands hovering uselessly over the gunshot wound on her thigh. Blood soaks through the torn fabric of her pants, slick and vivid against her skin. I feel my throat close. Panic claws at the edges of my chest. I want to scream. I want to cradle her and never let go.

"You’re not fine," I whisper, but my voice is too thin, too scared.

"Estela. Please."

That one word, spoken like an anchor, steadies me.

I nod. I don’t trust myself to speak again. My fingers hesitate before brushing her cheek. Her skin is too cold. She’s sweating. I want to stay. I want to hold her. But instead—I grab the nearest gun, shove two more into her lap with shaking hands, and take off into the trees.

I leave her leaning against the gnarled trunk of an old pine, her jaw tight, her fingers wrapped around the grip of a pistol.

I’ve never hated anyone like I hate Valentino Castellano in this moment.

He shot my Daphne.

He shot her.

I’m going to kill him.

I swear to the heavens he’s going to die today.

The forest looms around me—dense and shadowed, the trees stretching tall and ominous, like sentinels watching from above. I don’t run, not yet. I move low and fast, eyes flicking from branch to root, from shadow to glint. I’ve trained for this. I’ve killed men with steadier hands than his.

Tonight is personal.

My boots crunch on freshly snapped branches. I crouch and run my fingers over them—rough edges, not old. I scan the dirt for prints and find the telltale drag of a boot heel—he’s limping. Good. I hope the bastard’s ankle is shattered.

I push forward.

The night air is thick, laced with pine resin and the sharp tang of gunpowder. My heart is pounding like a war drum. There’s still blood on my fingers, warm and sticky. Daphne’s blood. Every time I blink, I see her face—pale, tight with pain, lips pressed into a thin line as she told me to go.

I grit my teeth. Focus.

We’ve chased him for almost a year now, always slipping through the cracks, Daphne is right he is a cockroach.

The thing about those pests is that they are not immortal and they die, and today he will too.

***

Daphne POV

It hurts.

It hurts more than I thought it would. Not that I haven’t been shot before—but this one hit bad. Clean through the thigh. It’s hot and sharp and wrong. Blood soaks through the fabric fast, warm and heavy, sticking to my skin. The air’s thick with pine and iron and pain.

I could’ve dodged it. Should’ve.

Valentino’s not even a good shot.

All theatrics, no technique. But something always happens when we’re close—when I’m this close—to finishing him. A misfire, a missed intel drop, an unexpected rescue. Coincidence? Maybe. But my gut says otherwise.

He doesn’t just survive. He slips. Like the universe folds in on itself to protect him.

But Estela? She gets close and he barely escapes each time.

I know her. She would’ve never left me here. If I asked her to go after him, she’d have refused. Thrown away the opportunity. And we can’t afford that. So I didn’t ask.

I took the bullet instead. Which I’m regretting a little right now.

I grit my teeth and lean back against the tree. The bark digs into my spine, rough and grounding. Every time I shift, the wound flares like fire. My fingers are shaking. I breathe through it.

I’m not afraid of pain. I’m afraid of failure. Of letting him escape again.

Where is Julie when you need him?

Probably a couple minutes away, still cursing about the jammed comms. He’ll lose his mind when he sees the blood. He’s worse than Estela when he gets panicked. Soft, ridiculous man.

I close my eyes and listen. The forest is alive with movement. Rustling leaves. Distant shouts. And then—I hear it.

Spanish. Murmuring. Low and too confident.

I blink slowly. So that’s how it is.

Grabbing the two pistols Estela left me, exhale, and settle my grip. They’re coming in from the south ridge—smart,Elevated angle, except it back fires because they are sitting ducks from this angle.

I steady myself against a root, drop into a lower angle, and wait. I can barely see them through the trees—but I don’t need to see clearly. Their voices give them away. I count three. Maybe four.

They move closer. Machetes. One with a scoped rifle. Not Valentino’s personal guard, he’s six feet under thanks to me, unlike Valentino he didn’t have that weird protection on him.Probably cartel sweepers sent as backup.

The moment they break through the foliage, I shoot without hesitation.

The first two don’t even have time to raise their weapons. The bullets rip through them fast—one in the chest, the other between the eyes. The third shouts and ducks behind a boulder.

I smile.

Bad idea.

I shift my angle, aim slightly higher, and put a bullet through the top of his skull. He collapses behind the rock like a puppet with its strings cut.

Everything’s still again.

Blood pools at the base of the trees. The forest goes quiet in that eerie way it does when violence passes through.

I exhale, slow and ragged.

Three down.

I watch the shadows a beat longer. Just in case. But I don’t hear anyone else. Not yet. Still, I know better than to stay still.

I glance at my leg—bleeding less now, but still leaking. Infection risk. Muscle damage. Maybe a tendon. Maybe worse.

Paralysis flickers in the back of my mind like a neon sign. I shove it down.

I reach down and rip a strip off my shirt, fold it twice, and tie it around the thigh like a makeshift tourniquet. It’s crude. It stings like hell. But it’ll hold.

For now.

I use the tree to push myself upright. My balance wavers. I clench my jaw and resist the urge to scream.

Who knows if they have back up? I will not be a sitting duck. Not out here. Not tonight.

Estela’s hunting Valentino like a vengeful ghost through the woods. And he’s running scared—he should be. She’s scary when she’s like that, he is already dead he doesn’t know that but I’m not about to be too, I need to spend a good 20 years minimum, I’ve never grown old with her.

I stumble forward, slow but steady. Every step is a chorus of pain. But it keeps me awake. Alert.

I’ve fought worse odds than this.

I check the pockets of the fallen men. One of them has a knife. I tuck it into my waistband. Another has a half-used medkit—bingo. I tear open the alcohol packet and bite down on my knuckles as I press it to the wound.

The scream stays in my throat. Barely.

"Fuck," I whisper through clenched teeth.

My mind drifts—just for a second.

To Raffaele.

I hope things are going better for him, even if they aren’t he better win, there’s literally no choice. It’s do or die. It’s how it works in Castellano.

If Luciano wins, there’s no peace. Not for me. Not for Estela. Not for any of us. He’ll dig until he finds us. He’ll set the world on fire and smile while it burns. Fucking psychopath.

And if that happens... ohwell, I’ll get rid of him too.

Let the world spiral into another war. I’ll vanish into the smoke with Estela and Julie and never look back. We’d have to sacrifice some luxury but disappearing is not hard at all.

The bullet wound burns like it wants to rewrite my entire nervous system. I manage a step. Then another. I limp past the bodies without looking down. They’ll rot here. Let the forest have them.

It’s more of a half-drag, half-determined hobble than a walk, really. Life’s hard.

I love this bloody world—truly, I do. The chaos, the power plays, the adrenaline of pulling off impossible schemes—but it’s getting old. Too many scars. Too many near-deaths.

My body aches like a war museum. I don’t mind most of the scars. They’re souvenirs. Stories etched into flesh. But still. Enough is enough.

I should be grateful I don’t have one on my face. Yet.

Although...

Now that I think about it, a scar on my cheek would be pretty badass. Maybe just under the eye, real cinematic. Add an eyepatch, and boom—I could totally pull off pirate queen in one of these worlds.I’d have a ship, a tragic backstory, the charm. I’d be phenomenal.

"You look like shit."

The voice cuts through my haze, warm and dry and blessedly real. The tension in my body unspools all at once.

Julie.

I turn, slow, and there he is—black tactical jumpsuit, dark curls a little damp from sweat, boots caked with forest grime. His brow furrows the second he sees the blood.

I muster a smirk. "Feel like it too."

He’s beside me in seconds. No hesitation. I collapse into him without a second thought, body finally letting go now that I’m safe. He catches me easily, one arm under my knees, the other at my back.

Princess style.

It’d be romantic if I wasn’t covered in dirt and blood and the literal scent of death.

"Boss," he grumbles, his tone full of exasperated affection, "this is getting old, you know. After this, I deserve a two-month, fully-paid vacation. Somewhere with mojitos. And no guns."

"Two weeks," I mutter, head dropping against his shoulder.

"A month and two weeks."

"Two weeks and a bonus."

"Three weeks and a bonus."

I smile faintly. "Deal."

He groans like I’ve stolen a piece of his soul. Which, honestly, I probably have.

His arms are warm. Strong. He’s like a giant, overworked mama bear who keeps pretending he’s not soft but would absolutely murder anyone who hurts me. I let myself melt into that safety, just for a second.

His heart pounding beneath my cheek. His breath steady. My eyes grow heavier with each step he takes.

I let the darkness call me, and this time, I don’t fight it.