"Medical," Nero said. "Run."
No one came fast enough.
That was the problem with emergencies. They obeyed distance, barricades, bodies, claws, and the terrible mathematics of corridors filling with beasts faster than people could clear them.
Thomas remained on one knee, one hand braced against the bloody floor, the other still wrapped around his blade as if he could hold himself together by holding a weapon.
Sylvia dropped beside him.
"Sylvia," Thomas rasped.
"If you tell me to stay back again, I will scream."
"You should—"
"I will scream louder."
His mouth closed.
Blood ran between his fingers where he pressed his side. His breathing was controlled in the way that meant it was not controlled at all. The air around him was wrong, heavy with dominance cracking under pain, rage, and the terrifying need to protect what was behind him.
Her.
Sylvia looked at him and hated her own hands.
They were clean.
Uselessly clean.
