Shen Li had passed out cold.
Her breath came in shallow, uneven gasps, but her pulse was steady. Qingran hovered over her a moment longer, double-checking for any remaining contamination. Satisfied, she summoned a clean cloth, warm water, and antiseptic from her space.
Carefully, she cleaned the wound again.
It was deep but no longer bleeding, and most importantly—it no longer moved.
The skin around it was raw, inflamed with the remnants of the parasite's grip. Qingran applied a salve to reduce infection, then began bandaging her up tightly, wrapping gauze from shoulder to lower back.
"I'm sorry you had to go through that," she whispered.
When she finished, she dressed Shen Li in clean clothes from her pack, carefully guiding her limp arms through the sleeves. The girl stirred faintly, murmuring incoherently, but didn't wake.
Qingran brushed a hand gently across her forehead, smoothing the tangled strands of hair back.
Then she stood.
She wasn't done.
Not by a long shot.
