As Noctis charged at Levi with full force, Benedict focused all of his attention on Isaac.
The young man was still unsteadily on his feet, staring at Levi as though frozen in place. His gaze was vacant, as if his mind refused to comprehend what had just happened.
"Isaac!"
Benedict rushed over and caught him just before his legs gave out. Isaac was alarmingly light. His breathing came in ragged gasps, blood clung to his lips and trailed down over his chin. The left sleeve of his sweater was soaked a dark crimson, stiff with dried blood.
He looked horrific—and even that was an understatement.
Sweat glistened on his forehead, his skin was deathly pale, and his pupils were unfocused. He looked as though he'd seen a ghost.
"Isaac, can you hear me?"
No response.
Isaac's eyes remained fixed on Levi. Only when Noctis delivered a brutal kick that sent the man flying several meters across the ground did Isaac finally blink.
"Noc..."
The moment he uttered his lover's name, his body crumpled. Benedict caught him, struggling to keep him upright.
"Isaac, can you walk?"
The assassin known as Three was keeping their enemies at bay, but Benedict knew they didn't have much time. He had to get Isaac out of here—and fast.
Isaac lifted his head slightly.
"Ben...?" His voice was little more than a hoarse rasp. "What... are you doing here?"
He sounded completely dazed. Benedict needed only a single glance to realize Isaac wouldn't be able to take another step. Carefully, he slid one arm beneath Isaac's knees and the other around his back before lifting him into his arms.
Isaac squeezed his eyes shut in pain. A quiet whimper escaped him as his trembling hands instinctively clutched at Benedict's shirt.
"I'm taking you to Vincent."
Isaac didn't argue. He no longer had the strength. Benedict gave Three a brief nod, and the assassin returned the gesture without a word.
Together, they moved out.
While Three silently eliminated one opponent after another, carving a bloody path through the fighting, Benedict kept running. He ignored the bodies already littering the ground and the heavy stench of blood that was steadily filling the air. Normally, he would either storm a scene like this with his tactical unit or arrive afterward to investigate, when only the dead and a handful of survivors remained.
Instead, he had killed a few of those men himself, making him no better than Vincent's men.
As long as he kept his eyes shut to that reality and focused solely on Isaac, he could keep going. He would deal with everything else later.
Isaac's body burned with fever.
Each breath sounded heavier than the last, as though every single movement demanded an unbearable amount of strength. Yet he stubbornly forced himself to stay awake. His fingers clung so tightly to Benedict's clothing that his knuckles had turned white.
Hang in there. You're almost with Vincent.
At least he wasn't bleeding out.
Vincent came into view and motioned for them to follow. Benedict didn't hesitate, entrusting his safety entirely to Three.
When they finally reached Vincent, they climbed into a transport van. The rear doors remained partly open while, outside, two more assassins joined Three.
"Lay him down," Vincent said.
His voice was calm, but Benedict could hear the concern beneath it.
Carefully, Benedict knelt on the floor of the van and lowered Isaac onto the waiting stretcher. The moment his back touched the surface, a pained groan escaped him. His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths. Then another violent coughing fit seized him. Dark blood spilled from his lips, splattering across the stretcher.
Benedict swore under his breath. He wasn't a doctor, but even he could tell Isaac was in critical condition.
Vincent gently brushed the sweat-soaked hair away from Isaac's face.
"Shh... try to breathe slowly, Isaac," Vincent said softly. "I'll patch you up. Just let me take a look at your injuries, okay?"
Isaac struggled for air. His lips moved, but instead of an answer, only a hoarse, unintelligible rasp escaped him. After several seconds, he gave a weak nod.
"You can sleep soon. I promise," Vincent murmured, his focus never wavering.
He switched on a bright examination lamp and directed it toward Isaac's torso. Then he took out his knife and sliced Isaac's sweater completely open.
Vincent's expression darkened, while Benedict stared at the albino's chest in shock.
The entire area was covered in deep blue and purple bruising—especially across his ribs, his upper abdomen, and his entire left flank. Even the veins beneath his skin stood out in a dark bluish hue.
His face was tinged a sickly green from the blows he had taken. His lips were split open, and dried blood from his violent coughing clung to his mouth and chin. Blood was still slowly seeping from a gunshot wound in his upper arm.
Vincent took hold of the injured arm and carefully rotated it. Isaac sucked in a sharp breath the moment he lifted it.
"The bullet's still in there. But it doesn't seem to have hit anything vital," Vincent murmured, more to himself than to Benedict.
He tore the dressing from Isaac's left flank, exposing an infected gunshot wound that no longer looked like a gunshot wound at all. The stitches had burst open, the edges were swollen and an angry dark red, and the injury bore unmistakable signs of having been tampered with.
It looked as though someone had deliberately dug around inside it.
Vincent froze.
For a brief moment, he said nothing.
Then he slowly raised his eyes.
"Isaac," Vincent said, his voice grave. "Did he torture you?"
At first, Isaac didn't respond. His gaze remained fixed on the ceiling of the transport van. Only after several seconds did he give the faintest nod.
"H-he..." He had to stop to catch his breath. "...put... h-his... th-thumb..."
He couldn't finish.
His voice gave out as another coughing fit wracked his body. Benedict felt his stomach turn at the mere thought that someone could even conceive of shoving a thumb into an existing gunshot wound.
Blood ran down Isaac's lips.
His eyelids fluttered, his unfocused gaze drifted aimlessly before, with a weary sigh, he closed his eyes. His breathing remained labored.
"Don't try to talk anymore, Isaac," Vincent said in a calm, reassuring voice.
He placed his hand over Isaac's wound and closed his eyes.
The transport van suddenly seemed unnaturally quiet. Only Isaac's strained breathing and the distant gunfire outside disturbed the silence. Vincent sat perfectly still, his entire focus fixed on Isaac.
Slowly, beads of sweat formed on his forehead. One broke free and trickled down his temple. The relaxed expression Benedict had always associated with Vincent gradually vanished, replaced by mounting strain as his brow drew tighter and tighter together.
Without realizing it, Benedict held his breath.
When Vincent finally opened his eyes, Benedict's heart nearly stopped.
His black irises seemed almost completely dark, as though they swallowed the light itself. And in his gaze burned a fury Benedict had never seen in him before.
No...
Anger wasn't a strong enough word. This was pure, unrestrained fury. Vincent looked as though he wanted to tear someone apart with his bare hands.
Benedict shuddered involuntarily under the intensity of his gaze.
It wasn't directed at him.
It was meant for Levi.
"That goddamn bastard..." Vincent hissed through clenched teeth.
Had Benedict ever seen him this enraged? Was this really the same calm, composed clan leader he had slowly been getting used to?
"What's... wrong with him?" he asked cautiously.
Vincent drew a deep breath, forcing his rage back under control before turning his attention to Isaac again.
"Three broken ribs. One has punctured the lower lobe of his lung. Blood poisoning caused by someone tampering with the gunshot wound in his flank. A fresh gunshot wound to his upper arm, along with multiple contusions." His voice dropped into a growl. "I'm not even going to start on the head injury."
He shook his head in disbelief.
"How was he even able to keep fighting...?"
Benedict looked down at Isaac.
Only now did he truly grasp just how inhuman Isaac's endurance had been.
Isaac let out a faint, amused snort.
"Am... I... going to die...?"
The words were barely more than a whisper.
Vincent, however, simply rolled up his sleeves.
"Who do you think you're talking to?" he scoffed. "I patched you up after a certain someone filled you with bullets. You'd practically bled to death—and your heart stopped twice."
Benedict stared at Vincent in shock.
"His heart stopped... twice?" he asked in disbelief.
Vincent nodded.
"It wasn't easy, but I brought him back without using my magic. With magic, this will be child's play."
He glanced at Benedict before turning back to Isaac.
"I'll cure the blood poisoning and treat everything else the way any normal doctor would."
His fingers brushed lightly over Isaac's uninjured shoulder.
"Once your body has regained a little strength, I'll heal the rest with my magic. I don't want to put unnecessary strain on it while your circulation is still this unstable."
Isaac gave a weak nod. That seemed to be enough for him.
Vincent drew a clear medication into a syringe.
"Go to sleep, my adorable brother-in-law. We'll see each other again when all of this is over," he said calmly.
The corners of Isaac's lips lifted into the faintest of smiles.
"T-tell... Noc..." He had to pause for another breath. "...that... I... love him..."
The words were barely audible.
Vincent smiled back at him.
"You can tell him yourself in a few hours. Sleep well."
He placed the needle against Isaac's vein and slowly injected the medication. Moments later, Isaac's body relaxed, and his breathing became a little steadier.
In the blink of an eye, Vincent's expression shifted from gentle reassurance to stern focus.
He fixed Benedict with an irritated look.
"Disinfect your hands, put on some gloves, and do exactly what I tell you. We don't have time to waste."
Benedict stared at him in shock.
He was supposed to do what, exactly?
He had never performed an operation in his life—never even assisted in one. Damn it, the closest he'd ever come to something like this was watching medical dramas with Dan.
"What...?" he stammered. "I thought everything was going to be okay."
"It will be—but not if you keep standing there. Now get moving. I need your help," Vincent said impatiently.
He shot Benedict one last glare as he placed a hand over Isaac's abdominal wound.
"We'll discuss your insubordination later. I don't recall ever giving you permission to charge into the middle of a firefight."
Benedict disinfected his hands and pulled on a pair of gloves.
"I wasn't aware I was supposed to follow your orders," he replied, equally annoyed. "I'm here because I want to help Isaac and repay my debt."
"My plans work because everyone sticks to their assigned role! It's bad enough that my brother is constantly ignoring orders and doing whatever the hell he wants. Don't you start doing it too!" Vincent snapped.
He exhaled slowly.
His voice had already regained its usual calm after the brief outburst.
He placed both hands over Isaac's abdominal wound.
Vincent didn't need to tell Benedict that he'd begun healing Isaac. If there was one thing Benedict had learned about the Webster clan's magic, it was that it was nowhere near as visually spectacular as the movies made magic out to be.
"I know exactly what every one of my men is capable of," Vincent continued. "That's why I can deploy them where they'll be most effective and make sure no one gets hurt. But damn it, I don't want to use you the way I use my men."
"Nothing happened to me," Benedict replied defensively. "And your best people—including your infuriating brother—were right beside me the whole time."
"You were supposed to stay here in the van!" Vincent barked. "It wasn't just you who could've gotten hurt! My men know you're with me! Do you have any idea what kind of chaos it would've caused if you'd taken a damn bullet or been stabbed?"
Benedict lowered his eyes guiltily.
He understood exactly what Vincent meant, and it frustrated him to no end that his rescue attempt had nearly thrown Vincent's entire plan into disarray. He could have kept making excuses, hoping to calm him down.
But Benedict was perfectly capable of acknowledging when he was in the wrong, and this was Vincent's domain—not his.
Vincent sighed.
"I'm just glad you're okay," he said at last.
Benedict looked at him silently for a moment before speaking.
"Were you... worried about me?" he asked in surprise.
"You know perfectly well that I don't want you by my side just because of the information you have," Vincent replied with another sigh.
His gaze darkened, and in that instant Benedict felt, unmistakably, just how deeply this man desired him.
"We're compatible in a great many ways."
A smile tugged at Benedict's lips before he cleared his throat.
"What do you want me to do?" he asked, deliberately changing the subject.
Why did he suddenly feel like an awkward teenager?
Vincent hadn't confessed his love or proposed to him. He had merely put into words what had long existed between them.
When Vincent looked at him, an amused smile spread across his lips. Apparently, he knew exactly what was going through Benedict's mind.
"Disinfect the gunshot wound in his shoulder and remove the bullet. Then stitch the wound closed. Once I'm finished here, we'll open him up."
Benedict stared at him in horror. He let out a nervous laugh.
"I think I misheard you," he stammered. "You definitely didn't just say you're going to cut him open."
Vincent met his gaze with a challenging look.
"I did. And it won't be the first time. I've already removed part of his liver once before. That rib has to come out of his lung."
Then, all of a sudden, he burst into laughter.
"Relax, Ben. As you know, I do have a doctorate."
Benedict slowly let out the breath he'd been holding. Right. Vincent did have a doctorate. After all, Benedict had thoroughly investigated his background. He could do this.
It would be like following a repair video showing him how to fix a heat pump or a washing machine.
What could possibly go wrong when a complete amateur starts performing surgery on a human being?