The truck didn’t stop until they crossed into The Cuts.
Mateo drove through narrow backstreets, headlights off, engine low. Rain soaked the windshield and blurred the broken buildings around them. Neon signs flickered in the distance, but most of the district slept in darkness.
In the truck bed, Mark lay flat on his back.
Every breath felt like broken glass.
Devon knelt beside him, hands shaking but steady enough to press his jacket against Mark’s side.
“You’re bleeding internally,” Devon said quietly. “I can see it in your eyes.”
Mark tried to answer, but pain rolled through him like a wave.
Ifizi climbed into the truck bed as it slowed near the safe house.
“He’s crashing,” Ifizi said.
“Get him inside,” Mateo called from the front. “We can’t stay exposed.”
The truck rolled into
