Instead, he shrugs off his ruined coat—custom-tailored, navy, probably worth thousands—and wraps it around my shoulders.
I'm so cold that the blood on the lining feels warm.
The coat hangs on me like a shroud.
He holds it closed at my collarbone, his hands slick with red and trembling just enough for me to notice.
Behind us, the survivor is still crawling.
He makes it as far as the edge of the loading dock, then collapses, face buried in the gravel.
Ruairí watches him for a moment, then looks down at me.
"We need to go," he says, softer now.
"Can you walk?"
I nod, or I think I do.
My feet move, and that's enough.
He keeps one hand on my back, steering me past the sprawl of bodies and out into the dark.
We leave the container behind, its door gaping like the mouth of a cave that never learned to swallow.
At the edge of the yard, there's a car.
Black, low, windows tinted.
Ruairí opens the passenger door and lowers me in, tucking the coat around my legs.
When he closes the door, the world shrinks to a muffled hush, the only sound the faint click of cooling metal and my own breathing.
I watch him through the windshield as he walks around to the driver's side, pausing to look back at the scene we've left.
He stands there for a second, silhouetted by the orange lights, then wipes his hands on his pants and slides in next to me.
I take a deep breath in as he starts the engine, and the heater comes on with a whoosh.
The warmth is immediate and almost intolerable.
We sit there, not moving, for what feels like forever.
I turn to him, searching his face for the thing I'm supposed to say.
He stares straight ahead, hands clenching and unclenching on the wheel.
"You let him live," I rasp.
He doesn't look at me.
"Someone has to tell the story."
I nod and lean back against the seat.
The coat is heavy, and the stains are starting to dry.
The car pulls away.
