I touched my cheek. My fingers came away red.
The cut from Dmitri. Bangkok felt like weeks ago.
"Looks like it need stitches. There is clinic around corner. Very close."
He pulled a wad of Euros from his pocket.
"You earned this."
I looked at the money, then at him. "I don't want it."
His hand moved fast. The cash disappeared back into his pocket.
"Suit self." He gestured toward his face. "Tell the doctor at clinic we sent you. The fat men. He come here when not working."
I raised an eyebrow. "The fat men?"
"The nickname sound better in French," he said, grinning.
I shook my head, grabbed my jacket, and headed for the bathroom.
The mirror confirmed what I already knew. The cut was deeper now, reopened and extended. Blood ran down my cheek in a thin line.
Yeah.
Stitches.
I pressed a towel against it and left.
The clinic was exactly where the fat man said—around the corner, tucked into a quiet street that looked nothing like the neighborhood I'd just left.
Simple sign. Professional. Hours listed underneath.
Opens at 8 AM.
I checked my phone.
7:14 AM.
Shit.
Where had the time gone?
Hours waiting. Two fights. Walking. The night had dissolved without me noticing.
I leaned against the wall next to the door, towel pressed to my face.
The street was empty. Paris waking slowly. A delivery truck rumbled past. Somewhere, a dog barked. The sky was lightening—pale gray bleeding into something softer.
My body felt heavy now that the adrenaline had worn off. The kind of tired that lived in your bones.
I closed my eyes.
Just a few minutes.
Just until they opened.
9
