“Oh my god.”
He tried to stand. Couldn’t. Slid back down the wall with a sound like something breaking inside him, wet, wrong.
I reached for my phone. Hospital first, questions later. This man was dying.
“No hospitals.”
Raw voice. Teeth chattering between syllables. But absolute certainty underneath the hypothermia.
“You’re bleeding out.” Already pulling up emergency services. “And hypothermic.”
He moved.
Fast, too fast for someone half-dead. His hand went to his hip, reaching for something that wasn’t there. The gesture was automatic. Trained.
Lethal.
My breath caught. Every instinct screamed danger.
I didn’t run.
“If you’re planning to kill me,” I heard myself say, steadier than the pulse hammering my throat... “you should know I’m the only chance you’ve got right now.”
He froze. Stared at his empty hand like it belonged to someone else. His face twisted, pain, confusion, both, and his eyes lost focus. Pupils blown wide, swallowing the color. Shock advancing fast.
Blood dripped from his fingertips. Soft sounds hitting snow that I shouldn’t have been able to hear over my racing heart.
I moved closer.
Stupid. So goddamn stupid.
But I’d seen enough trauma cases to recognize the signs. This man had minutes.
Assessment automatic, clinical even while adrenaline sang through my veins: Deep scalp laceration, arterial bleeding. Dislocated left shoulder. Deep lacerations across ribs, at least three, possibly four from the way he held himself, careful and controlled despite the shivering. Broken ribs underneath, maybe. Hard to tell through blood and shredded gear. Hypothermia advancing, violent shivering, slurred speech, deteriorating motor control.
Wet clothes. River cold. How long had he been in the water?
Ten minutes, maybe fifteen, before core temp dropped too far. After that, organs started shutting down.
“Who are you?” His voice came out wrong, looking at his hands, his torn gear, like he was asking himself.
“Clare Bolton.” I extended my hand. Challenge and lifeline both, fingers steady despite the cold crawling up my spine. “And you’re bleeding out in my alley.”
Sirens wailed in the distance.
Growing louder.
His head snapped toward the sound. Something changed in his eyes, not fear. Worse. Recognition with an edge like broken glass. Those sirens meant something specific.
“They’re coming for you.”
Not a question.
He didn’t answer. Didn’t need to. I watched him assess escape routes with tactical precision that didn’t come from civilian life. Exit points. Cover. Distance to the drainage tunnel. Military training, maybe. Or something darker.
The smart choice: let him run. Call it in. Go back inside where it was safe.
But he swayed on his feet. Fresh blood running into his eye, down his jaw. He wouldn’t make it fifty yards.
