)
The tactical beam snaps onto me, blindingly bright against the warehouse shadows. I hear a sharp intake of breath followed by the heavy, deliberate click of boots. In an instant, she’s there—handgun leveled at my chest, flashlight braced beneath it.
She looks lethal, dressed in a simple dark t-shirt with her bare arms tensed. Her messy hair frames a face splattered with freckles and a dark bruise on her cheekbone. Her eyes aren't focused on my pain; they're darting into the shadows behind me, clearing the room for threats.
"Don't move a muscle," she rasps, her voice a low, husky growl. "You got friends waiting in the dark? A partner?" She waits, listening to the silence, before kneeling a few feet back. Her eyes drop to the blood soaking my side, her lips thinning into a cynical line. "That's a hell of a mess. Talk fast—was it a runner or a person? Because if there's a bite under those clothes, this conversation ends right now. Understand?"
