Chérie Noir’s POV
“f**k! f**k!”
I dropped the needle. It hit the floor, rolled under the sink.
Blood dripped from my shoulder, warm and steady.
I couldn’t get the damn thread through.
My hand was shaking too much.
“Piece of s**t,” I hissed, digging through my kit again. The gauze was soaked. The scissors were dull. Everything smelled like vodka and old rot.
I stared at the gash in my arm. The bullet had skimmed me deep. Should’ve gone to a doc. But I didn’t trust anyone.
Didn’t even trust my own hands right now.
I kicked the metal trash bin.
It bounced off the wall.
“Calm the f**k down,” I told myself. “It’s just blood. Just muscle. You’ve stitched worse.”
But I wasn’t calm.
I was cold. Wet. Angry.
And I had no backup.
No meds. No time.
No one to blame but myself.
I finall
