I learned that night that I will run toward gunfire for people I love faster than I'll run from it.
I got Killian to the compound's medical building in a blur I only half remember — the frantic drive, hands slick with his blood on the wheel, Killian's voice fading in and out of coherence in the back seat as he fought to stay conscious. Every mile felt endless, every red light I ignored on the empty roads feeling like the only choice I had left. I kept talking to him, some instinct telling me that keeping him conscious mattered as much as the pressure I'd told him to hold against his side, filling the silence with anything I could think of — old stories about the garage, a running commentary on my own terrible driving, anything to keep his attention anchored to my voice instead of the pain
