KATLYN
Dr Patrick lived in an apartment building not far from the hospital she ran for women and kids. She had opened the door for us with a lift of her eyebrows like she hadn’t been surprised one bit to see an injured man, dripping blôod, standing on her threshold with me and two guards that followed us.
“You opened your stitches.” She said, reminding me of the last time Zurich had called her to treat me, as she cleaned her medical equipment while Danish and the other guard pulled the torn and blôody shirt off Zurich.
“Please, take care of him first.” I replied, the pain in my arm was bearable and I’d take that pain hundred times over seeing him stabbed and bleeding because of me.
“No. Stitch her up, look after her first.” Zurich growled, making me snap my head up in his direction a
