The pharmacy smelled of dust.
Behind the glass shelves stood yellowed bandages, old medicines, faded-label vials. Zaber pressed the rag against his wound with his hand, and in that moment he understood one thing:
He could die.
It was not just a passing thought.
It was cold, hard fact.
The cut on his shoulder was deep. The wound along his side was long, but not immediately life-threatening. He had lost a lot of blood, yet he still had strength to stand.
The problem was not the injury.
The problem was the command.
"Enough."
That single word kept circling in his mind.
Who had stopped them?
Why had they stopped?
Why not straight to the heart?
Zaber bit down on the bandage and pulled it tight. Pain darkened his vision. He made no sound.
"So the intention was never to kill me," he said to himself.
Not yet, at least.
---
Outside the door, people passed. Footsteps. Whispers.
A woman's voice drifted in:
"They say the boy fell from the roof…"
