Yaroslav Vetrov
The safehouse smelled of blood and antiseptic. Rosanne lay on the couch, her jacket cut away, a crude bandage pressed into her shoulder. Her skin was pale, but her mouth never stopped moving.
"Okay, first of all," she groaned, "getting shot sucks. Zero stars. Do not recommend."
"Quiet," I ordered, pressing gauze tighter.
She hissed through her teeth, then smirked weakly. "Look at you. Bossing me around. You'd make a decent nurse if you weren't so... murdery."
Her voice wavered, but her eyes stayed bright, sharp, alive.
Leon hovered nearby, arms crossed. "She needs real care. Hospital-grade."
"No," I snapped. "Too many eyes."
Rosanne muttered, "Also paperwork. Hate paperwork."
Leon gave me a long look. "You'll lose her if you don't face it. She's not one of your men. She doesn't heal just because you order it."
I ignored him. My hands stayed steady, but inside... inside I was unraveling.
She drifted in and out. Fever kissed her skin, her words turning slurred.
"Don't... don't be mad," she whispered once, half-conscious. "It was my turn. You keep saving everyone. So I saved you."
Her hand fumbled weakly until it found mine. "Now we're even, Murderpuppy."
The name, ridiculous as it was, gutted me. I held her hand, silent.
Leon's voice came from the shadows. "You care about her."
I didn't answer.
"You think it's weakness," Leon pressed. "But I've seen you without her. You bleed rage. You burn too hot. She's the only thing keeping you tethered."
His eyes pinned me, unflinching. "So stop lying to yourself. Admit it."
I looked at her—Rosanne, ridiculous, reckless, bleeding out on a couch with crumbs on her shirt from a snack she'd tried to eat mid-stitching. She shouldn't have been in my world. But she was.
I said nothing.
But I didn't let go of her hand.
When sunlight finally cracked the blinds, she stirred again, eyes fluttering open.
"Morning," she croaked.
"It's still night," I muttered.
Her lips curled into that familiar grin. "Ha. Knew you'd say that."
And despite everything—the blood, the loss, the war—I felt something dangerous rise in me.
Hope.