Kael crouched beside Silas, his hands slick with blood as he pressed down on the wound. Silas’s face was gray and his breaths came shallow, but his eyes still held that stubborn glint, like he was daring death to try harder. Marcus knelt opposite, his broad hands steady, applying pressure with a torn jacket. Elias hovered, his scar twitching with every wince Silas gave, while Rafe scouted the alley’s end, his silhouette tense against the flickering streetlights. The night was too quiet now, the earlier gunfire a fading echo, but Kael’s pulse roared louder than any shot.
Where the hell was Phina?
“Keep breathing, old man,” Kael muttered as he glanced toward the corner where she’d run for the first aid kit. It's been too long. She should’ve been back by now. His fingers tightened on Silas’
