Her gaze was fixed unwaveringly on Tristan's arm.
"You..."
She finally moved, her lips trembling.
Tears finally slipped down, uncontrollably, falling silently along her cheeks.
It felt like her heart was being ripped open, then shattered, crushed underfoot.
Tristan slowly lowered his head and glanced at the wound on his own arm.
Blood had already soaked through his shirt, sticking viscously to his skin.
He frowned—not because of the pain, but because it was troublesome.
"It's just a minor injury. I'm fine."
Moments ago, everything happened so suddenly. He rushed downstairs in such a hurry he didn't have time to put on his jacket properly; he just tossed it over his arm and dashed out.
If he'd put the jacket on, the thicker fabric might've blocked some of the impact, maybe the knife wouldn't have gone in so deep.
But now, it was useless to say any of that.
He raised a hand and wiped his face, his fingertips stained with blood—whose, he wasn't even sure.
