Chapter 5
1012 Words
"Sit. Now."
Sarah kicked the bathroom door shut with her heel.
The apartment was quiet, but the bathroom was a brightly lit interrogation room. The fluorescent bulb hummed overhead, reflecting off the white tiles.
Noah sat on the edge of the tub, clutching his side. His white shirt was ruined, the red stain stiffening as it dried.
"Sarah, please," Noah stammered, trying to stand up. "It’s really not a big deal. I just need a band-aid."
"Sit down, Noah!"
She pushed him back by his shoulders. Her hands were strong. Cop hands.
"Take it off," she ordered.
"The... the shirt?"
"Yes, the shirt. Unless you want me to cut it off." She grabbed a pair of scissors from the vanity. She didn't look like she was joking.
Noah fumbled with the buttons. His fingers felt thick and clumsy—partly an act, partly the blood loss. He hissed as he peeled the fabric away from the wound.
RIIIP.
The cotton came free with a wet tearing sound.
Sarah tossed the shirt into the sink and knelt between his legs. Her eyes narrowed as she inspected his ribcage.
The wound was an angry red line, about three inches long. It wasn't ragged like a tear. It was straight. Clean. And the edges were seared, as if something incredibly hot and fast had kissed his skin.
She touched the skin around it. Noah flinched.
"This is deep," Sarah said, her voice low. She looked up at him, her dark eyes searching his face. "This doesn't look like a scratch from a sink, Noah. It looks cauterized."
Noah’s heart skipped a beat. A bullet graze looks exactly like a burn.
"It was the shelving unit," Noah lied, the words tumbling out in a nervous rush. "In the archives. Old 1950s steel. I was squeezing past the Biography section, and a rusted edge just... snagged me. I didn't even feel it at first."
"A rusted edge did this?" Sarah traced the line with her thumb. "It looks like you were grazed by a projectile."
"A projectile?" Noah forced a laugh. It sounded brittle. "Like what? A flying book? I promise, it was just metal."
Sarah didn't look convinced. She stared at the wound for another long second, her internal detective weighing the evidence.
Then, she sighed. The tension in her shoulders dropped. She reached for the first aid kit under the sink.
"You need stitches," she said, opening a bottle of rubbing alcohol. "But knowing you, you'd faint in the ER waiting room."
"I hate hospitals," Noah mumbled. "They smell like sadness."
"This is going to sting."
She didn't count to three. She just poured.
"Ah! Jesus!" Noah arched his back, gripping the edge of the porcelain tub.
"Hold still," Sarah commanded. Her voice was softer now. She dabbed the wound with a gauze pad, her movements precise. Efficient.
She worked in silence for a minute, cleaning the blood from his skin. Noah watched her. The harsh light highlighted the exhaustion under her eyes and the tiny scar on her brow. She was beautiful when she was focused.
"You have to stop doing this," she whispered, not looking up.
"Doing what?"
"Getting hurt." She applied a butterfly bandage, pulling the skin tight. "I can't be everywhere, Noah. I can't protect you from rusty shelves and slippery floors."
She looked up, her eyes wet.
"I can't have a baby with a man who can't survive a library."
The words hung in the small room. The air felt heavy, charged with the steam from the shower and the smell of alcohol.
Noah looked down at his hands—the hands that had snapped a neck two hours ago.
"I'm sorry," he said. And he meant it. "I'm trying, Sarah. I really am."
"Try harder."
She finished the bandage and rested her hands on his bare knees. She stayed there, kneeling on the bathmat, looking up at him. The anger was fading, replaced by something raw.
"You scare me," she said. "Every time you don't pick up the phone. Every time you come home with a bruise. The world is dangerous, Noah. And you're so..."
"Soft?" he offered.
"Good," she corrected. "You're too good for it."
She leaned up.
Noah met her halfway.
The kiss wasn't gentle. It was desperate. It tasted of red wine and fear. Sarah’s hands moved from his knees to his waist, pulling him closer, careful of the bandage.
For a moment, the Ronin didn't exist. The Council, the murders, the lies—they all dissolved. There was just the heat of the bathroom and the woman he would burn the city down to save.
Sarah pulled back, breathless. She rested her forehead against his.
"Bed," she commanded. "Now."
"Yes, ma'am."
...
An hour later.
The bedroom was silent. The rhythmic sound of Sarah’s breathing told him she was finally asleep.
Noah lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan cutting through the shadows. His side throbbed in time with his heartbeat.
The guilt was a physical weight on his chest. She thought he was fragile. She thought he needed protection.
If she knew what he had done to that Enforcer...
BZZT.
His phone vibrated on the nightstand. One short pulse.
Noah turned his head slowly, checking that Sarah didn't stir. He reached out and tapped the screen, shielding the light with his palm.
[TEXT FROM: JINX]
Bad news, Romeo. Krell knows.
Noah frowned, typing back with one hand.
[NOAH]
Knows what?
[TEXT FROM: JINX]
That you’re not just a vigilante. He saw your moves on the dock. He says you fight like a ghost. He’s spooked.
Noah felt a chill that had nothing to do with the night air.
[TEXT FROM: JINX]
He just wired a deposit to an offshore account. He’s hiring Black Shield. The whole battalion.
Noah set the phone down.
Black Shield. Private military contractors with legal immunity and military-grade hardware.
He looked at Sarah, sleeping peacefully beside him. Her gun was on the nightstand, next to his glasses.
The war wasn't just in the streets anymore. It was coming for them.
- Writer
