He closes his eyes for half a second.
The gesture is small.
Devastating.
“I’m sorry,” he says.
There it is.
My throat tightens so fast it almost feels like a physical injury.
I swallow hard and look away from him, up at the stained concrete ceiling and the flickering utility light that suddenly feels way too bright.
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Me too.”
The room feels smaller.
The air feels heavier.
I drag a shaky breath into my lungs and then look back at him, because avoiding the giant bone-spurred not-man in the room with me feels like a bad long-term strategy.
“You carried me out of a burning building,” I say carefully. “You killed the people who were trying to kill me. You brought me here instead of leaving me to bleed out in an alley. So I’m going to go out on a limb and assume you’re not actively my enemy.”
He nods once.
Sharp.
Decisive.
“I am not.”
“Cool,” I say weakly. “Because my fight-or-flight response is currently trying to do both at the same time and it’s really messing with my blood pressure.”
A corner of his mouth lifts.
Just barely.
Then his eyes drop to my arm.
His jaw tightens again.
“You need a medic,” he says quietly. “I did what I could, but you should be in a hospital.”
A hysterical laugh bubbles out of me.
“Oh yeah, sure,” I say. “Let me just stroll into Novaria General and explain that I was rescued from a mob firebombing by a seven-foot-tall bone demon and could they please give me a room with a view.”
His gaze flicks back up to mine.
“Surveillance drones are already searching the district,” he says. “If I take you to a hospital, Oversight will have both of us in containment before your IV finishes dripping.”
Oversight.
The word lands like a cold hand closing around my spine.
“…Right,” I say slowly.
We stare at each other across the small, concrete room, two deeply traumatized strangers connected by blood and fire and a truly unhinged sequence of events.
