Sophia’s pov
The smell of blood filled my nostrils as I pressed the cloth harder against Costa's shoulder. My brother winced but said nothing, his jaw tight with pain. Three blocks from the federal building, we huddled in what used to be a shoe store. Mannequin feet still lined one dusty shelf, watching us with their plastic indifference.
"Hold still," I muttered, tying the makeshift bandage. "You're making it worse."
"I'm fine," Costa growled. "We need to move."
"Sure, you're fine. And I'm the Queen of England." I tightened the knot, ignoring his grunt of pain. "Those Commission agents almost killed you back there."
Costa leaned his head against the wall, eyes closed. "They weren't after me."
"No? Then why did they shoot you instead of saying hello?"
"Always with the jokes, Sophia.
