"He's unconscious, Davinia. That's enough. We've got all we need from him," Tiana reassured me, her grip on my hand tight with concern. For warmth, for Davi.
The sight of Marco is unsettling; his hair, the only recognizable feature amid the blood-soaked mess. My hand, holding the bloody scalpel, feels heavy. The metallic taste of blood lingers in my lungs, and my face and right hand are coated with it. Slowly, I meet Tiana's worried eyes and glance down at my blood-splattered trousers.
"I need a bath," I mutter stiffly. Tiana nods in agreement, taking the scalpel and tossing it away, the echoing sound adding a dramatic effect.
"Let's go," she says, leading me away from Marco, but our path is blocked.
Rolan stands before us in a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves. I forgot he was in the
