Eric clenched the whistle between his teeth and kept blowing. Over and over. The string slapped against his chin, drenched in rain. The sound echoed in his ears—broken, fading, and uneven.

“Help me! Save me… I’m here…” Hadley.

Eric heard her again. He lunged forward, slipping on the wet ground. His knee hit hard, but he didn’t stop.

“Mr. Scott!” Tamara reached out instinctively.

“Here!” He waved her off, eyes burning with urgency. “It’s right here!”

He dropped to the ground and began clearing debris—stones, bricks, anything he could move.

“Mr. Scott!” Tamara turned to the bodyguards. “Come help us dig!”

“Yes!”

They stepped in at once, working alongside him.

“Mr. Scott, please…” Tamara wanted to tell Eric to stand back, to let them handle it. Phillips was already bringing the rescue team. There was no need for this. But one look at Eric’s face—soaked and pale, rain dripping from his hair—stopped her. She said nothing and joined him instead.

Eric worked without pause. His raincoat clung to him, soaked through. His hair stuck to his forehead, heavy with water. His cheeks were streaked with rain.

Under the harsh spotlight, his face looked pale, nearly translucent.

He kept digging. Stone by stone. Brick by brick. Wood, metal, earth—anything in his way.

The whistle dangled from his mouth, and he blew it between breaths. At first, her voice still answered. “Help me… I’m here…”

Each cry was softer than the last.

“Whoo—”

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He kept blowing, refusing to stop. He kept digging. His mind raced. What if she couldn’t respond? What if she was too weak—or injured? What if she was slipping away?

But she could still hear him. She had to. Right?

“Hadley, I’m here!” he shouted. “I’m coming! I’ll get you out!” His hands moved faster, more desperate.

“Tamara—” one of the bodyguards looked toward her and gestured.

She’d seen it too. Her stomach turned. Eric’s hands were torn raw—skin split open, blood mixing with mud in gruesome streaks.

But no one moved to stop him. They could only keep working—keep hoping—and pray Phillips would return soon.

Then came the low rumble of machinery.

Someone shouted, “It’s Mr. Brown!”

Another called out, “Mr. Scott! The rescue team is here!”

“Make space! Clear the area for the excavator!”

Eric stumbled forward and grabbed the rescue leader’s arm with both hands—muddy, bleeding, trembling. “Please. My wife is under there. Be careful… don’t hurt her. All expenses will be handled by the Scott Group. If she’s saved, we’ll donate an additional hundred million toward post-disaster recovery. Just… please.”

His voice cracked. “Please… save my wife.”

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