Kyle went dead silent.
Good.
"There's a guy you're gonna find," I continued, voice low and even. "Go to Westmore Street, building twenty-three. Brown door, no sign. Knock twice. Ask for Rocco. Tell him the word is Ashtray. Got It?"
"Westmore, twenty-three… Rocco… Ashtray. Got it," Kyle repeated immediately, like the obedient damn soldier he was.
"Drag him to the address I'll send to your number in five. Don't let anyone follow you, don't breathe a word. Not even to the shadows on the fucking sidewalk. You hear me?"
"Yes, sir."
Click.
I exhaled like I'd just chewed glass and leaned forward with a grunt, hissing through my teeth as fresh heat flared under my ribs. I looked down, wrap was soaked now, the bleeding had picked back up, slow but steady. That meant I didn't have long.
"Fucking perfect," I muttered.
I braced both hands on the bed and forced myself upright. Every joint in my body creaked like bad plumbing, and the wound flared again, hot and angry. My vision darkened for a second, but I held on. Breathed through it.
Got to my feet.
Barely.
Dragging one foot forward, I staggered down the narrow hall. The apartment was as shitty as I expected it to be, tiny, dull-colored walls, another dead plant in the corner like it had died of second-hand embarrassment, and more chaos trailing behind her than a goddamn warzone. Shoes tossed in random places. A flower vase balancing on the edge of a shelf like it wanted to die.
And the smell. Cheap shampoo, fried food, noodle seasoning, and something vaguely lemon-scented, like she'd tried to clean one spot just to give herself hope. Even prisoners lived better than this.
Her shower was running down the hall, water splashing as she moved around in there, probably slipping on her own mess.
I grunted, dragging myself to the worn-out sofa and collapsing onto it like a sack of bricks. The springs groaned beneath me, probably in pain too. My entire side was throbbing, my fingers already sticky with fresh blood where I'd pressed them to the wrap. I let my head fall back and shut my eyes again for one second. I needed to get my priorities straight.
And that's when she walked out.
Wrapped in a towel. Hair dripping. Face flushed from the steam.
She took one look at me and screamed.
"Jesus fuck—oh my god—"
Then she froze.
"Oh. Oh. Right. It's you."
I cracked an eye open and raised a brow. "You scream like that every time a man's on your couch, sweetheart? Or just the bloody ones?"
She was still clutching her towel like a lifeline when she snapped at me, face crumpling into offense like I'd insulted her mother's cooking.
"Are you always this rude to the people who save your life from dying in an alley surrounded by trash?"
I tilted my head, letting a slow smirk crawl across my face. "Nah. You're just special."
She blinked. Visibly fought the urge to slap me. Then rolled her eyes and turned to head back to her room with a muttered, "I don't have time for this."
"Hold up," I said, lifting a hand lazily. "What's your address?"
She paused. One foot over the threshold of her bedroom. "Why?"
I looked her dead in the eye, voice cool and casual as a loaded gun. "Unless you feel like explaining to the cops why there's a bleeding half-dead man in your apartment, sweetheart, I'd suggest you spit it out."
She glared at me, jaw clenching before she exhaled through her nose. "Twelve-B—Marlow Heights. Block D."
"Good girl," I said under my breath as I pulled her phone back up, tapping in a message to Kyle:
12B Marlow Heights, Block D. Brown door. Bring Rocco. Say Ashtray. Don't call this number again. Don't get followed.
Send.
Then, one by one, call log, gone. Text thread, gone. Contact, deleted. No trail. No strings.
I leaned back again, arm draped across the couch like I owned it. My shirt was starting to cling with blood, the wrap soaked straight through, but all I could do was breathe steady and keep my spine straight. Pain was a hum now, loud, dull, insistent but manageable.
Barely.
She returned not long after, dressed this time. Jeans, a cheap work shirt, hair pulled into some rushed twist. She stood in front of me now, arms folded, eyes sharper, voice calmer.
"So… when are you leaving?"
I didn't answer right away. Just watched her. Tried to pin her down, figure out what kind of girl picks up a stranger leaking blood and stashes him in her shitty apartment like a stray cat. She was still biting her inner cheek like she wasn't sure if she was annoyed or just stupidly kind.
Then she added, more pointed, "Can I have my phone now?"
I handed it to her, but didn't let go until her fingers closed around it. "You're not actually thinking of kicking out a poor, wounded man, are you?" I said, gaze fixed on her. "Where's your humanity?"
She faltered. Just for a second.
"I'm not kicking you out," she mumbled, tucking the phone into her bag. "I just—I have a landlady who's nosy as hell, and if she sees you she'll call the police."
I smirked again. "Don't worry, I'm not planning to die on your sofa. I made a call. Help's coming."
She nodded, still visibly unsure. "Okay. Well. I have to go to work now, so you'll be on your own."
"No problem," I said smoothly, watching the way she lingered near the door.
She looked back. Paused.
"What?" I drawled, "Afraid I'll steal your toothbrush? Lace your instant noodles with cyanide?"
Her brows knitted Into a frown.
I leaned forward slightly, voice dipping with a slow, deliberate tease, "Sweetheart, I'm a helpless man right now. Bleeding and barely mobile. What could I possibly do?"
She muttered something I didn't catch, probably insulting me under her breath, before finally turning toward the door, keys jingling in her hand. I watched her go, a smirk still on my face, pain gnawing at my side, and just the faintest spark of interest flickering beneath the blood and sarcasm.