Outside, the fog was thickening, curling over the ground like a living thing.
Simon's voice came rough, strained. "The mist will get worse if we stay here too long. Those things love the fog."
Michel slammed the carriage door shut, locking out the bitter cold. He knelt beside Simon, hands moving fast as he examined the wound. Blood had already seeped into the torn fabric of Simon's pants, staining his leg in dark crimson. The gash was deep—one of the ghouls must've clawed him before he could react.
Sylene crouched nearby, watching as Michel worked with quiet focus.
"I thought it was dead," Simon muttered, his face tight with pain. "Blasted it with my railgun, but when I turned around, the bastard got my leg. Core must've been misaligned... wasn't in the usual spot in the forehead. Damn creatures keep adapting."
He sighed, gritting his teeth in annoyance. "We should go to the military district and report this. After our job's done."
Michel didn't respond, merely poured antiseptic over the wound. The sharp sting made Simon hiss through his teeth, his body tensing against the pain. The liquid worked fast, flushing out the grime and coagulating the blood. Michel moved efficiently, pressing a patch soaked in medicinal fluid over the injury. Bit by bit, Simon's face eased, his breathing slowing.
Michel carefully wrapped the wound, his fingers steady despite the lingering tension in his expression. He was used to this—had done it before, many times.
"Luckily, it's only a surface wound," he muttered. "Didn't tear the muscle too deep. You'll need to rest for a week."
Simon let out a dry chuckle. "Three days," he corrected. "I'll be fine."
Michel shot him a look but didn't argue.
Simon exhaled, reaching beside him. With practiced ease, he pulled an exoskeleton brace from its case and secured it around his wounded leg. The mechanical joints clicked into place, molding to his limb with a quiet hum of energy. A moment later, he pushed himself up—and stood.
Sylene watched, fascinated. Despite the injury, Simon moved as if nothing had happened, adjusting his weight on the reinforced brace.
He was already reaching for his gun, checking its chamber with the casual ease of someone who had done this a thousand times before.
Sylene's fingers twitched at his side.
That exoskeleton.
He had never given much thought to human technology before, but now… if he had one, maybe—maybe—he could finally stand a chance against an army of vampires. Against the scientists. Against Rosencraft.
But first, he needed a job. Needed to reach Luen. Get an ID.
Across from him, Michel wiped down the VX nano-weapon, his usual confidence dimmed by anxiety. He was paler than before, hands trembling faintly as he worked. He hid it well, but Sylene noticed.
From outside, the sharp crack of VX nano-fire echoed through the carriage walls. The fight wasn't over.
Sylene turned the dagger in his hands, methodically wiping the blood from its blade. He looked up and found both Michel and Simon watching him—expression unreadable, wary.