Killian is sitting on the small window balcony, looking outside. He looks so calm, lost in his thoughts, as if his back didn’t look like the work of a butcher.
I take another breath and take one more step toward him. The moment he hears me, he turns his face and watches me approach.
“How did you know I was hurt?”
Distracted, I place the first‑aid kit on the floor and start rummaging through it, not entirely sure what I’m doing. I find an anesthetic spray and shake it; then I read the instructions, still unfocused. These last few days I’ve taken care of the wound on my hand myself, even removed my own stitches, but everything in this kit feels completely new to me.
Never in my life had I felt so unsteady, not even when Demyan had me hanging from shackles, my feet barely touching the flo
