The eyes closed again.
Just like that — there, then gone. The grip on his wrist went slack. The man's head tilted back against the wall with the boneless weight of someone who'd spent everything just to surface for a few seconds.
Kael sat frozen, wrist still held loosely in a hand that had gone still.
Then the bleeding soaked through the gauze.
Okay, he thought. Okay. That's a lot.
He pressed harder. Grabbed the remaining gauze and layered it on top, his hands moving faster than his brain. Somewhere in the back of his mind, one thought surfaced — clear and specific.
I cannot do this alone.
He held it for exactly one second.
Then he grabbed his phone.
It rang twice.
"Kael. It's past midnight."
Her voice was flat in the way that meant she was already awake but would make him work for it anyway.
Three years of friendship had made him fluent in Seren's particular brand of bluntness — she didn't soften things, and she didn't do patient unless patient was necessary.
Right now, he needed her to do patient.
"I need your help," he said.
"My shift starts at six."
"Seren."
A pause. Short. She was reading his tone — processing the frequency of his voice rather than just the words. She always did that.
"How bad?" she said.
"There's a man on my floor. He's been shot. Twice, I think. Maybe more. The bleeding's slowed but not stopped, and his breathing is—" He exhaled. "It's not good."
Silence.
Then: "Kael. What did you do?"
"Nothing," he said — and it came out with enough genuine offense that it was clearly true. "I opened my door. He fell in. That's the entire story. I promise I'll explain everything later, but right now I need you to—"
"It's a monsoon outside."
"I know."
"You live in The Hollow."
"I'm aware of where I live, yes—"
"There were gunshots earlier. I heard them from my building." A beat. "Whatever this is — that's not a random mugging. That's organized. If you're involved in something—"
"I'm not involved in anything." Low and sharp. "I'm involved in a man bleeding out on my floor because I was stupid enough to have a conscience. That's it."
Silence again. Longer this time.
He could hear her thinking — that specific quality of Seren's silences, the ones where she ran the whole thing through her practical, unimpressed mind and arrived at a conclusion she wasn't going to enjoy.
She was the only person who knew everything.
The omega status. The family. The government program, the shelter, the library computer at two in the morning. She'd found out by accident, six months into their friendship, when a delayed heat hit him in the break room of the café. She'd been the one to get him out — no scene, no questions, nothing asked in return.
She'd handed him suppressants from her bag. "I work in a hospital. I keep everything."
He'd trusted her completely ever since.
Which meant she also knew exactly how much it cost him to ask for help.
"Is he going to die?" Flat. Clinical. She'd switched registers — he heard the shift, from skeptical friend to something sharper.
"Yes," he said. "If I don't do something in the next—"
"Don't move him. Is he on his back?"
"Side. Against a wall."
"Good. Keep him there." The sound of movement on her end — sheets, footsteps, a drawer opening. "The wounds. You said two?"
"One on the left side, below the ribs. One on the upper arm."
"Which one is bleeding worse?"
"The side."
"What are you pressing with?"
"Gauze. I've layered it, but it's soaking through."
"Press harder. Use the heel of your hand, not your fingers — consistent surface pressure, not point pressure. Do it now."
He did.
The man didn't react. Didn't flinch.
"Okay," Kael said.
"Is he conscious?"
"He was. Briefly. He's out again."
"Breathing?"
Kael leaned close, watched the chest rise and fall.
"Yes. Shallow."
"Skin color?"
He checked. "Pale. Very pale."
"Was he pale when he got there?"
"He's— yes, naturally. But it's worse now."
He didn't finish the sentence.
"I know what it looks like," Seren said quietly. Not unkindly. "Keep the pressure. Talk to me — is the gauze holding, or is it bleeding straight through?"
Kael checked.
"Slowing. I think. Slightly."
"Good. That's good." More sounds on her end — something being zipped. "The arm wound — is there an exit wound? Check the back of the arm."
He moved carefully, lifting just enough to look.
"Yes."
"That one's cleaner then. The side is the problem." A pause. "Kael. I need you to actually look at something."
"What?"
"The wound on the side — entry point, but no exit?"
He lifted the gauze. Just enough.
Checked the back.
His stomach turned.
"Yes," he said. Quietly.
The line went silent for a moment.
Then Seren's voice came back — even, professional. The voice she used when she was telling someone something they were not going to want to hear.
"There's still a bullet inside," she said. "And Kael — it needs to come out."