She pivoted, her own blade blocking the strike with a sharp clang, but the man was fast, twisting to slash again.
As he saw a second figure emerge from the shadows, this one with a pistol raised.
"Move!" Alex shouted, throwing himself forward. He swung the wrench wildly, catching the second attacker's wrist.
The pistol clattered to the ground, but not before it fired, the shot echoing like thunder in the tight space.
Mikasa dispatched the first attacker with a swift slice to his throat, but the gunshot had drawn blood.
She staggered, a hand pressing to her side where a dark stain bloomed through her jacket. The bullet had grazed her.
"Damn it," she hissed, her voice tight with pain but still controlled. She leaned against the wall, her breath shallow, blades still raised as she scanned for more threats.
Alex dropped the wrench, rushing to her side. "You're hit—let me see."
"It's nothing," she snapped, but her face was pale, and her hand trembled slightly as she pressed it to the wound. Blood seeped between her fingers.
"Bullshit, it's nothing." Alex's voice was sharper than he meant, adrenaline overriding his usual restraint.
He knelt beside her, his hands hovering, unsure where to start. "We need to stop the bleeding. Now."
Mikasa's eyes narrowed, her instinct to push him away clear in her tense posture, but she didn't move. "We don't have time. They're still out there."
"Then we make time," he said, his tone firm. He tore a strip from his own coat. "Lift your hand."
She hesitated, her gaze locked on his, searching for something—weakness, maybe, or a reason to trust him.
Finally, she relented, lifting her bloodied hand. The wound was shallow but messy, a long gash where the bullet had torn through skin and muscle. It wasn't fatal, but it needed attention.
Alex pressed the cloth to her side, applying steady pressure. "Hold this," he instructed, guiding her hand back to the makeshift bandage. "Keep it tight."
She complied, her fingers brushing his as she took over. The contact was fleeting, but her eyes softened, just a fraction, like she wasn't used to someone taking charge like this.
He rummaged through a small satchel slung across his shoulder—standard issue for inventory workers, stocked with basic supplies.
His fingers closed around a roll of gauze and a small vial of alcohol. "This is gonna sting," he warned, uncorking the vial.
"Do it," she said, her voice steady despite the pain.
He poured the alcohol over the wound, wincing as she hissed through clenched teeth. Her free hand gripped his arm, hard enough to bruise, but she didn't pull away.
He worked quickly, cleaning the gash as best he could in the dim light, then wrapping the gauze tightly around her waist to secure the cloth.
"Do it fast," she muttered, her voice low, almost reluctant. Her grip on his arm loosened, but she didn't let go entirely.
"Alright just 1 minute," Alex lied, keeping his tone light. In truth, he'd never done this before—not in this world, anyway.
But he'd seen enough first-aid tutorials in his old life, and adrenaline was a hell of a teacher. "You're lucky it's not deeper."
"Lucky," she echoed, her lips twitchinge. "Like you."
He paused, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were piercing, but there was something new there—curiosity, maybe, or a crack in her usual armor.
"Yeah, well, maybe we're both cursed with it," he said, forcing a grin to break the tension.
She didn't laugh, but her expression softened further, and for a moment, the air between them felt different—warmer, less guarded.
Mikasa leaned back against the wall, her breathing steadier now, though her hand still rested lightly on his arm.
Alex stayed beside her as she leaned against the wall, silent. Her breathing was controlled, but he could see the tightness in her jaw, the way her fingers twitched near the hilt of her blade. She was already trying to stand.
"Wait," he said quietly. "You're still bleeding."
Mikasa didn't look at him. Her focus was down the corridor, where faint noise still echoed. "We move," she said, voice low and clipped.
Alex stood, hesitant. "You can't fight like that. Let me—"
"I can fight."
He didn't argue. She wasn't asking for permission. Still, she swayed a little when she straightened up, one hand pressed firm against her side. He stepped in, offering support.
She froze—subtle, but there—and then let him slide an arm under hers.
They walked.
Not fast. Quiet. The corridor narrowed, the air colder the deeper they went. The wrench was back in his hand. It felt heavier now. Blood on his sleeve wasn't his.
After a long stretch of silence, she spoke.
"You shouldn't have followed."
Her tone was neutral. Not accusatory. Not grateful. Just a statement.
"I know," Alex said, not looking at her. "But I did."
She didn't respond.
They moved through the tunnel until they found a rusted maintenance door. Mikasa leaned against it while Alex checked the latch. It was stuck, swollen with age and damp.
He pulled. Harder. Nothing.
Mikasa shifted behind him. "Step back."
He did.
With one kick, she forced the door open. Her body tensed in pain—he saw it—but she didn't make a sound.
The space beyond was narrow, half-collapsed, but open to moonlight at the far end. A way out.
Alex turned to check her. Her hand was still pressed to her side, the cloth dark with blood. "We need to stop and wrap that properly," he said, more gently this time.
She looked at him, finally.
A long pause.
Then, without a word, she sat down.
He knelt beside her, unspooling the gauze again. She didn't wince. Didn't flinch. But as his fingers worked, he felt her watching him—silent, guarded, assessing.
When he finished, he sat back on his heels. "You'll need stitches later."
She nodded once. "I've had worse."
He believed it.
She stood again, slower this time. Alex picked up his wrench.
They emerged from the collapsed corridor into open air—cool and sharp with smoke. The palace grounds were eerily quiet now. No more shouting. No more gunfire.