"Riot, you don't have to do this," I assured him for the last time. "It'll probably heal on its own. In fact, I feel better already," I said.
It's not that I'm particularly ready to die. It's more like fearing the tradeoff of actually going to this place called Khopeski. I've only ever heard of it before. A city accentuated with white and gold. They aren't tribal, like Visari or Oarca or Bastieel. They live under a different hierarchy. Different laws. Different traditions.
"You're bleeding through your shirt," he growls.
I look down and realize that he's right. There's a growing patch of bright red in the white material, arguing against me, so Riot doesn't have to.
Soon he's standing in front of where I sit, picking up gauze off the bed beside me. He gingerly lifts the hem of my shirt,
