You found him at the very end of a dead-end alley, where the smell of trash cans mixed with the sweet, nauseating smell of chimeric flesh. Xander was not visible at first glance — he merged with the shadows, sliding down from a pile of ruins into a muddy puddle. But the quiet, intermittent sound of his breathing — not a breath, but rather a hoarse intake of air — pulled you out of the general chaos of the night.

"Alive," flashed through my head with ridiculous, almost idiotic joy, until you ran closer.

Wounded. The word seemed too soft, too medical. He was crippled. The dark spot on his side seemed to have a life of its own, slowly spreading across the white fabric. Blood. There was too much of it.

The brain shut down, reflexes turned on. You collapsed to your knees next to him, not feeling the sharp stones under your knees. His fingers went to his belt, to the buttons of his jacket—he needed to get to the wound, he needed to understand the scale. But your hands were shaking.

"Hush, not so abruptly," his voice was a hoarse whisper, but there was still a familiar, sarcastic twinkle in it. "I'm not dead yet to be undressed with such passion."

You didn't answer, unfastened the buckle, unbuttoned your jacket. Then, by the edges of his thin, sweat— and blood-soaked T-shirt. I had to lift him up, and he groaned softly, resting his head against the wall. The fabric gave way with a rustle, and the wound opened to the eye. A long, jagged tear running down the ribs. Deep. Dangerous.

"What are you watching?" — he hissed, and a crooked, painful smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "You need to take off your pants and shoes too. Or you plan to bandage only the most important ones... interesting places?"

A warm wave of shame washed over your face. You jerked your gaze away, staring at your hands pressing the bloody cloth into his side.