“Run!” he shouts at me, blood leaking down his arm, voice shaking but strong. “Kira, now!”
I can’t leave him.
Another masked man rushes out of the shadows, running straight for him with the kind of reckless speed that tells me he has no idea who he’s charging at, and Artyom reacts faster than my eyes can follow, pushing off the car with his good arm and closing the distance in one long, brutal stride.
He catches the man around the middle, driving him backward with so much force that the attacker’s back hits the brick wall hard enough to knock the breath from his lungs, and before the man can even raise his weapon, Artyom’s fist connects with his jaw in a sharp, vicious arc that snaps the attacker’s head to the side.
The man tries to recover, lifting his arm as if he still believes he stands a chance, but Artyom hits him again repeatedly, a relentless rhythm of controlled violence that feels almost terrifying in how precise it is, until the man’s legs buckle and he slides down the wall in a limp, boneless heap.
Artyom doesn’t let him fall fully; he grabs the front of the man’s jacket with a quick, rough fistful of fabric, yanks him back up like he weighs nothing, and slams him against the wall a second time, harder, as if ensuring the fight is completely gone from him.
Only then does he shift his grip to the man’s throat, fingers curling around the sweaty skin just below the jaw, holding him upright with nothing but the strength of his injured arm, the muscles in his forearm trembling from effort or pain—I can’t tell which—and for a heartbeat I see the pure, lethal intent in his eyes, the instinct to finish it right there and end the threat permanently.
But he stops, tightens his grip for a moment, cutting off the attacker’s breath just enough that the man’s eyes roll back, then drops him in a controlled collapse that ends with his skull bouncing lightly off the pavement. The man is unconscious before his body fully hits the ground, his limbs splayed awkwardly across the concrete like a puppet with its strings cut.
The street finally goes quiet, a terrible silence that rings louder after the gunfire, broken only by the heavy, uneven sound of Artyom’s breathing and the distant echo of sirens somewhere far down the avenue, growing but still too far away to matter.
He sways for a second, just barely, a small unsteady shift of weight that makes my heart seize, and he catches himself with his good hand pressed against the car, his fingers curling against the rough brick as if he needs the support but refuses to admit it. Blood runs down his injured arm in a slow, steady line,and when he turns toward me, jaw clenched like he’s holding himself together through sheer force of will, his eyes go straight to mine, searching, checking, making sure I’m standing, that I’m breathing, that I’m here.
“Come here,” he mutters, voice low and strained.
I rush to him, my hands shaking as I slide under his good arm, supporting his weight as we drag the unconscious attacker toward the car that wasn’t shot to hell.
We shove him into the trunk. Artyom slams it shut, breath hitching as the movement pulls at his wound.
“Hotel,” he says, his voice low and sharp enough that the driver jerks in the seat, eyes wide and unfocused like he’s still catching up to the fact that any of us are alive. “Now.”
I don’t speak the entire drive back. My pulse is still in my throat, my hands still trembling in my lap, the image of that familiar face still burned into the back of my mind.
It couldn’t have been Lucas. It couldn’t. But it looked like him, and the thought makes my stomach drop.
When we reach the hotel, Artyom stumbles slightly as he steps out of the car, and I grab him without thinking, pressing my shoulder under his as he hisses in pain.
“I’m fine,” he mutters.
“You’re bleeding,” I snap.
He doesn’t argue.
We make it upstairs, both of us half-covered in dirt and blood, and the moment the door closes behind us, Artyom leans against the wall and exhales sharply.
“Sit,” I say, already reaching for my bag, where I keep a particularly well-stocked first aid kit. My voice comes out firmer than I expect, the instinctive nurse in me snapping to attention.
He sits on the edge of the bed, chest rising and falling too fast, blood soaking through his shirt, dripping onto the floor.
“Shirt off,” I say.
He gives me a look—something between stubborn and amused.
“I’m not asking,” I add quietly.
That gets a reaction.
He lifts his good arm, wincing as he tries to pull the fabric over his head, but I stop him and gently help, peeling the blood-stained shirt off his body, revealing the bullet wound in his shoulder. It’s not deep, thank God, but the bleeding hasn’t stopped.
I press the cloth to the wound and he inhales sharply, the sound a tight, forced drag of air through clenched teeth, his entire body tensing under my hands as if the pain is something he can physically push back against, something he can out-stare into submission even though the blood is still warm and the skin is already swelling beneath my fingers.
“Hold still,” I whisper, trying to keep my voice steady, trying to sound like I’m not terrified by the sight of him hurt, but he doesn’t listen.
