LEONARDO ANNISON
Oliver's blood smelled like copper and gunpowder, that metallic tang mixing with the damp earth scent of the rotting cabin. I pressed the bandage harder against his arm, watching his jaw clench as the fabric bit into torn flesh. The lamplight flickered across his face, catching the sweat beading along his hairline and the unnatural pallor of his skin beneath the golden glow.
"Christ, Annison," he hissed through clenched teeth. "You could at least buy me dinner first."
I didn't dignify that with a response, just tightened the knot with a sharp tug. His blood had already soaked through three layers of gauze. Too much. Too fast.
Charles groaned from the moth-eaten couch, his breathing wet and labored. The bullet had gone through his shoulder clean, but he'd lost enough blood to make his movements sluggish. "They'll have trackers," he muttered, his good hand fumbling with his phone. "Should've been here by now."
Oliver stiffened beside me. "Who's 'they' exactly?"
