Mr. Crane, who had been at Thomas Kim's side for years, quickly pulled a tourniquet from his pocket and tightened it firmly above the wound on Thomas's upper arm.
"I didn't even react before you pulled the trigger," Crane muttered, still shaken.
The firefight earlier had been absolute chaos—gunshots exploding from every direction, echoes ricocheting through metal beams and hollow concrete. It had been impossible to tell who was firing, who had been hit, or where the next bullet might come from.
Thomas shifted his gaze away from the corpse on the ground and answered evenly, "The direction of the shot."
He had caught it at the last second—the subtle deviation in muzzle flash, the angle.
If he hadn't moved when he did, the bullet wouldn't have torn through his shoulder. It would have gone straight through his skull.
Crane secured the tourniquet and examined the wound more closely. His brows knitted.
"It's not light."
