Ewan left the bleeding girl where she writhed on the floor, clutching at her wounded leg, her defiance still smoldering in her glare even through the pain. He ignored her spit, ignored her muttered curses, and pressed his ear to the heavy door she had been guarding.
Silence.
He tilted his head, listening harder. No shuffling. No voices. Nothing that betrayed what lay behind the barrier. His jaw tightened. The silence could mean one of two things: the room was empty, or someone inside was waiting—poised, breath held, gun raised.
"Not even going to say anything when your life's already hanging by a thread?" he muttered, half to the girl.
He turned his head slightly, his voice carrying the sharp edge of a threat. "One word could save you from bleeding out. Say nothing, and maybe I will blow off your other leg."
She glared, lips pressed into a thin line. Not a sound. Not even a flinch.
Loyalty.
Ewan breathed out slowly. Sometimes he hated the word."
