Eleanor's back hit the wall hard. The world spun for a second.
Blood from her lip. Knife still clutched. Heart punching inside her chest.
The taller guy stalked toward her, cracking his knuckles.
"You just don't learn, do you?"
"Try me," she hissed, spit red.
He lunged.
She went low—ducked the swing, slammed her shoulder into his gut, and shoved him toward the table. He crashed into a chair but didn't fall. Just stumbled, cursing.
The second one grabbed her from behind.
She elbowed his ribs—once, twice—he grunted, but didn't let go.
His hand wrapped around her neck.
"That's enough," he growled.
She kicked back, blindly—caught his knee.
The grip loosened.
With a twist, she spun out, and with everything she had, she slashed the knife across his arm.
He screamed, staggering.
Now there was blood on the floor.
The first guy was back up.
His eyes wide now—not mocking anymore.
"You're starting to piss me off."
Eleanor didn't care.
Her arm was shaking, shoulder bruised, body screaming—but she stood her ground.
Then he charged.
She didn't run.
She let him come.
At the last second, she threw the pan from the stove—burning stew splashing across his chest. He yelled, flailing—
And Eleanor slammed the handle of the knife into his temple.
He collapsed. Twitching.
The second man charged again, holding his bleeding arm.
Eleanor turned to swing—too slow this time.
He grabbed her.
Threw her over the table.
CRACK.
She landed hard. Wooden frame splintering.
She gasped—wind gone. Knife skidded out of reach.
He came over her, breath heavy.
"Let's finish this."
And just as he raised his arm—
Eleanor jammed a fork into his thigh.
Not deep—but enough to shock him.
She scrambled up, bloody, limping, eyes wild.
The front guy was still out cold.
Second guy? Cursing, clutching his leg.
She picked up the knife again and stepped toward him.
"Get out."
"You'll die for this—"
"Get. Out. Before I show you how many arteries I've studied."
He backed off.
Then he ran.
Out the door, limping into the night.
She turned to check on Dave.
Still unconscious.
She locked the door. Locked the windows. Pulled down the blinds.
And then?
She collapsed onto the couch beside him.
Shaking.
Alive.
The room was quiet again.
Bodies gone. Blood drying on the floor. Adrenaline fading from Eleanor's veins.
She stood at the open window, the breeze cold on her skin. She lit a cigarette with shaky fingers—more out of habit than relief. The first drag burned, but she welcomed it.
She exhaled hard. Just in time to hear—
"…what the hell happened to you?"
Dave's voice. Rough. Groggy.
She turned, saw him sitting up on the couch, blinking like he was still half-asleep—or half-dead. Blood drained from his face when he saw hers.
"El—Jesus, are you okay?!"
Eleanor waved him off, taking another drag.
"Relax. Just a light workout."
She limped toward the table, grabbed a paper towel, and dabbed her busted lip like it was routine.
"You missed quite a show, champ. Two guys. Me. A fork. You know—girls' night."
Dave rubbed his face, still stunned. "You're bleeding—wait, two guys?! Are you serious?!"
She finally looked at him, smirking.
"Yeah. One got a face full of stew. The other met my favorite fork."
"You're bleeding," he said again.
"So are my enemies," she said flatly. "We even."
Dave just stared at her like she was part woman, part myth.
"…I knew I married a badass."
Eleanor snorted.
"And I knew I married a man who could survive a forest full of killers—until he tripped on a memory and passed out."
"Low blow," he muttered.
"You're lucky I didn't film it," she said, flicking ash into the sink. "You were snoring like an old radiator."
"You just took on two men with a fork and I'm the joke?"
"Don't hate me 'cause I multitask better."
They both laughed—tired, bruised, bleeding. But alive.
Dave leaned back, eyeing her like she was both a miracle and a warning sign.
"Damn, El… you're gonna have to start teaching me self-defense."
She blew out smoke, dropped into the chair across from him, and crossed her arms.
"Lesson one: don't sleep through a home invasion, dumbass."
Dave chuckled, then paused.
"Seriously… you really did that?"
"Two guys. One Eleanor."
"…Sounds like a weird movie title."
"Don't get any ideas, Hollywood."
Their laughter echoed through the bloodstained walls—worn down, cut up, and completely untouchable in that moment.