She didn’t bother with questions.
“Get me clean water. Sterile cloths. Now,” she ordered, snapping on gloves. “And someone check his pulse again.”
One of the assistants obeyed, pressing two fingers to the side of the man’s neck. “It’s weak,” he reported. “But it’s there.”
Dr. Adams nodded once and began cutting away what was left of the boy’s shirt. As the fabric fell aside, my jaw tightened. The injuries were worse than I’d expected. Deep gashes crossed his torso and arms—some unmistakably from claws, others too precise, too deliberate. Dark bruising spread along his ribs and neck, and when I noticed the marks around his wrists, my unease deepened.
Restraints.
Dr. Adams frowned. “This isn’t just a random animal attack,” she murmured.
I stood at the foot of the bed, arms crossed tigh
