Yuri appears beside Anton, carrying a stretcher; they work together, carefully moving Shane onto it.
Anton and Yuri lift the stretcher and start rushing to the SUV.
As they pass my car and for just a second, I think I see Shane's eyelids twitch, a barely perceptible movement that might have been my imagination. My desperate hope, projecting life where there might be none.
They reach the SUV, disappearing behind the open doors as they load Shane inside.
Yuri slams the rear doors shut and sprints to the driver's seat. The SUV's engine growls as it reverses, tires squealing against pavement. Within moments, it's gone.
Sirens. The sounds multiply until it seems like half the city's police force is converging on our location.
The Camaro's locks disengage with a soft click.
I hit the window button, glass sliding up as Anton yanks open the driver's door and drops into the seat. His movements are controlled but urgent, no wasted motion.
"Is Shane—" I start.
"Alive." Anton shifts into drive before his door fully closes. "Unconscious, but breathing. Yuri will get them both to our medic."
The word hits me like oxygen after drowning. Alive.
I sink back into the leather seat, my body finally registering the absence of immediate danger.
Then Anton leans toward me, his face inches from mine. He reaches across my body...for the seatbelt. His fingers brush my hip as he pulls the belt across me, the metal clasp clicking into place with finality.
His knuckles graze my collarbone as he adjusts the strap, careful not to let it cut into my neck.
Anton's eyes meet mine for just a second before he settles back into his seat and buckles up. "I need to get us out of here fast." His voice is steady, controlled. "Don't be alarmed, but this car can be rough when it's moving at full speed."
The engine roars as he slams the car into gear. My body presses against the seatbelt from the force of acceleration.
My heart hammers against my ribs—from the storm of everything happening at once.
Once we hit the cross street, he whips the wheel hard, the car pivoting violently before he punches the accelerator.
Now we leap forward, weaving through traffic as the scene of carnage shrinks in our rearview mirror. The sirens fade behind us, but their echo still rings in my ears.
"The dead men. We just left five bodies in that alley," I utter.
Anton's hands grip the steering wheel tighter as he takes a corner at high speed.
"Already handled." He doesn't look at me as his eyes focus on the road ahead, threading between two cars with barely inches to spare. "I called our police connections before I got out of the car. They'll make sure everything is handled properly."
The city blurs past my window—buildings, traffic lights, people going about their normal lives. All of them, oblivious to the blood we left cooling on concrete.
I want to cry. I should be crying. Two men who protected me almost died in an alley while I ran barefoot through broken glass. And all I feel is this hollow emptiness where tears should be.
Maybe I used them all up last night.
This isn't my first shooting. It's not even my second.
The realization hits me with sick clarity. I'm twenty-one years old, and I can count on both hands the number of times I've run from bullets. I know the sound of gunfire ricocheting off brick walls.
I know how blood looks spreading across white fabric. I know the weight of a man's hand pressing against my back, pushing me toward safety while he bleeds behind me.
Anton has done this before, too. Rescued me, protected me, swept me away from danger. This dance we do, predator and protection, violence and salvation, and that's it.
I was supposed to go shopping today, to treat myself. Because shopping and going on a date with myself are the only things I have left. No more late-night adventures. No more sneaking out to clubs or bars or anywhere that might be considered remotely dangerous. My partner in rebellion has been officially domesticated for six months and is now married.
