Medical urgency replaced emotion.
“Pressure is holding,” Petros said instead.
“Bleeding is slowing. We need to get him to the hospital — now.”
I stayed sitting in the corridor.
Listening.
Frozen.
My hands trembled uncontrollably as I stared at the blood staining my skin.
Part of me wanted to run back inside.
To scream at him for being reckless.
To demand he stop trying to atone through self-destruction.
Another part of me — the darker part — understood.
He had chosen punishment because he believed suffering might be the only language I would accept from him.
And maybe —
He was right.
The bedroom door opened suddenly.
Petros stepped out first.
His face was tight with focus — blood smeared on his gloves and cuffs.
Behind him, two security men carefully carried Ruslan out on a stretcher.
He was pale.
Sweating.
His head tilted slightly to one side.
His right eye socket was wrapped tightly in thick gauze, already turning dark as it absorbed blood.
His remaining eye flickered — searching.
Looking for me.
When his gaze locked onto mine —
It softened.
Even through the pain.
Even through the shock.
He whispered weakly:
“Is it... enough?”
