Ren looked up, squinting. Cilian was a few feet away, the only light reflecting on him from the silver rays of the moonlight. He looked like a dark, tattered ghost—his overcoat was gone, and his white shirt was plastered to his skin, translucent and stained with a dark patch over his right shoulder.
Despite the injury, he was already moving about. He had found a sharp, triangular shard of airplane wreckage and was using it to clear a path through the bush, his movements sharp and efficient.
"Cilian... your shoulder," Ren panted, his voice a mere shadow of itself. "It's dark. You shouldn't be moving. You're bleeding."
"Aw, it makes me glad to hear you worry about me, Ren," he said, and Ren paused.
"That's because, if you bleed to death here, I will be alone, and I don't want to be alone," Ren countered, his voice cold despite the tremors in his limbs.
