She spits blood that sizzles against shadow. Defiant. Admirable.
"Fuck. You."
"Wrong answer."
Her neck snaps like wet kindling. I drop her, already assessing. Bodies. Water. Blood. One painting untouched.
One civilian definitely touched. Traumatized. Reconsidering every choice that led to being under a desk while I murdered a strike team.
"Olivia."
No response.
"You can come out."
Nothing.
I crouch beside the desk. She's curled small, knees to chest. Eyes huge, fixed past my shoulder. Probably on the corpse with the broken neck.
"Hey." Soft voice. Spooked animal tone. "It's over."
She blinks. Focuses. There's blood on my face, my hands. Not helping.
She's looking at me like I'm a stranger. Like she never worried about my vitamin intake. Never adjusted my collar. Never said my name that way that made me want to be human.
Blood still warm on my hands. She's small under that desk. I've ruined everything.
"You killed them." Not accusation. Observation. But I hear the subtext.
"Yes."
"All of them."
"That's how I handle people breaking into my home." I offer my hand. See blood. Withdraw it. "We need to move. More might be coming."
She takes shaky breaths. Then, because she's Olivia and incapable of normal reactions: "Is your shoulder okay? That looked deep."
I stare. She stares back at the hole in my shirt. Blood seeping.
"You watched me kill six people and you're worried about my shoulder?"
"It needs cleaning. Water magic injuries get infected. Harbor bacteria." She uncurls slightly. "We should—"
Another crash below. More attackers or my people handling stragglers. Either way, this room's no longer safe.
"Up." I grab her arm, haul her out. She stumbles against me. Soft, warm, alive. "Stay close."
"The painting—"
"Leave it."
"But I'm not finished—"
"Olivia." I turn her to face me. "Armed killers. Artistic concerns wait."
She looks at bodies, blood, dripping water. Then reaches up, wipes blood off my cheek with paint-stained fingers.
"You're hurt in multiple places."
