“I’m here,” I say, gripping her fingers. “I’m right here.”
“Documents… in the lining. Get them… get them to?—”
“Shh. Don’t talk. They’re safe. You’re safe now.”
“Not… not until it’s all out.”
Her eyes roll, and her body jerks as pain hits her like a current. One of the techs hits her with a sedative patch. I watch the tension bleed out of her limbs like smoke.
She goes still.
Too still.
For the first time since the war, I feel like a soldier again.
Not a fighter. Not a chef.
Just a man watching someone he loves bleed out while he can’t do a godsdamn thing about it.
I clench my jaw so hard my molars grind. Heat pools behind my eyes, but I shove it back. No room for tears. Not now.
The medics work. I don’t leave. I can’t.
I watch them stitch her. Foam the wound. Check vitals. Recheck them.
And when the lead medic finally looks up and gives me a single nod—I almost collapse.
“She’s stable,” she says.
My knees damn near buckle. But I catch the edge of the table and hold.
“Thank you.”
The medic nods again, already moving to sterilize her tools. Like it’s just another day.
But it’s not.
Not for me.
They let me sit with her once she’s patched up and moved to the back bunk room. The lights are dim. Just enough to cast shadows across her cheekbones. Her skin’s still pale. But she’s breathing easy now. Even. Deep.
I sit on the floor, back against the wall, her bag clutched in my lap like it’s made of gold.
Because it might as well be.
Inside: proof.
The vial. The documents. The order to kill a diplomat.
It’s all there.
I run a hand down my face. My fingers come back slick with sweat and dust.
She risked everything for this.
Bled for this.
And now we have it.
