As the Mordecais drove away, the only sounds left were the sound of rain slapping over the pavement and Dennis's pathetic groans as he clutched his bleeding leg.
Cilian didn't move his hand from Ren's shoulder. If anything, his grip grew heavier, his thumb tracing a slow circle against the fabric of Ren's shirt.
Then, he finally leaned on Ren as his feverish heat spread through their layers, but his gaze remained fixed on the spot where the traitors had just been standing.
"Well," Cilian hummed, his voice dropping from its public performance to that private, playful tone. "That was... invigorating. Wouldn't you agree, Ren?"
Ren didn't answer. He was staring at the gun in his hand, the metal cooling rapidly in the damp air. The adrenaline was starting to fade, leaving behind a hollow, shaking cold that sat deep in his spine. He looked at the blood pooling in the rain on the floor and felt a strange, detached sense of reality.
