The Greta Who Survived Time

Over the past two days, Ethan had found himself thinking about Greta from time to time. The memories came in fragments, disjointed, never enough to form a complete picture.

Meanwhile, Cara stayed glued to his side, urging him to help arrange her father's memorial.

Ethan figured Greta needed time to recover anyway. Once the memorial was over, he could sit down and talk things through with her properly.

Then, the day before the memorial, a call came in from an unfamiliar number.

Ethan had only heard a single sentence before his expression changed completely.

"If you dare lay a finger on her, I'll take your life," he said.

After hanging up, Ethan immediately mobilized his men and ordered a full-scale search for Cara.

Then something struck him. His face darkened further.

He drove straight to the hospital and shoved open Greta's hospital room door.

"Greta, was this you…?"

The room was empty.

Greta was gone.

Ethan's heart skipped violently.

This was the first time since losing his memory that Greta had triggered a feeling he couldn't name.

Before this, all he had recalled were scattered images.

Of her managing his business affairs, washing his clothes, or baking cakes.

He even remembered her carrying him on her back while dodging gunfire, running two full blocks with bullets flying around them.

Yet no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember where she had come from.

And now that she had disappeared, where could she possibly have gone?

His phone rang again.

The photo on the screen showed a severed finger, still smeared with blood.

"Your childhood sweetheart," the message read, "and the wife you've been married to for years. Let's hope you won't find tomorrow's memorial too difficult, Mr. Price."

Ethan ground his teeth. He hurled the phone against the wall. It shattered with a deafening crash.

The next day, the cemetery entrance was under heavy guard. Ethan had ordered full security, waiting for the other party to appear.

At last, an unremarkable black car pulled up.

The moment the door opened, Ethan had already raised his gun.

But when he saw who stepped out, he lowered it instantly, afraid of hitting her by mistake.

Cara stumbled forward, her entire body strapped with explosives, crying so hard she could barely stand. Ethan's chest tightened in pain.

When he noticed the blood‑stained bandages wrapped around her right hand, murderous intent surged uncontrollably.

Just as his fury peaked, he saw another figure step out behind her.

It was Greta. She, too, was bound with explosives. Her expression was cold and detached.

Only the wound on her shoulder remained shockingly vivid.

Ethan's heart skipped again.

In the past, he wouldn't have hesitated. He would have chosen Cara without a second thought.

But now, for reasons he couldn't explain, his mind was in chaos.

The last person to step out of the car was the man Ethan wanted dead more than anyone else—Andrew.

The man wore a lazy smile, his expression openly mocking, The way he stood there, looking like he was enjoying the show, was infuriating.

Ethan clenched his jaw, his voice cold and vicious, "Andrew, what exactly do you want?"

Andrew glanced at the two women, his smile dripping with sarcasm.

"Mr. Price, what's it gonna be? Cara or Greta. Pick one."

Ethan fell silent.

After a moment, just as Andrew's patience began to wear thin, Ethan suddenly laughed, "I want both. What do you think you can do about it?"

The words barely left his mouth before hundreds of men surged from all corners of the cemetery, pressing in on Andrew until there was no way through.

Ethan's lips curled in a contemptuous smile, "You and I have been at each other for years. You really thought I'd come here unprepared to negotiate?"

Andrew's eyes, however, betrayed no hint of panic, only a trace of mockery.

"Is that all you've got? You really are an idiot!" he sneered.

Almost as soon as the words left his lips, explosions ripped through the air.

The men surrounding Andrew were shredded instantly, their bodies torn apart, and even the gravestone was caught in the blast.

Smoke and the stench of blood filled the air like a living thing.

Ethan's finger tightened on the trigger until his knuckles went pale, his gaze cutting as cold as a knife.

"Andrew, respect the dead. Don't take this too far!" he roared.

Andrew's previously cocky expression hardened into cruelty.

He held a detonator in one hand, his smile dark and calculating, "I've lost my patience with your games. Two choices. One—or neither?"

"Stop!" Ethan shouted.

Seeing that Andrew was serious, he felt panic rising, tangible and terrifying.

On one side was Cara, crying so violently she could barely stand. On the other side was Greta, cold as ice, expression unreadable.

"Ethan! Help me! My father died saving you! Don't abandon me now!" Cara cried.

Ethan's whole body shuddered.

His gaze flicked to the tombstone, memories flooding back— the dying man clutching his hand, pleading for him to protect Cara.

And yet…

At the same time, a torrent of images, fragments of life and death shared with Greta amid bullets and blood, assaulted his mind.

His head felt as if it were splitting apart, the pain so sharp it made him stagger.

Shards of memory tore through his brain, each one slicing at him from a different angle.

He doubled over, clutching his head, pain radiating through every nerve.

"Choose. Now. Three... two..."

"Wait!" At the very last second, Ethan drew a deep breath and made his choice. "Let go of... "