The safehouse wasn’t much — four walls, a creaky bed, and a broken lock on the door. Dust coated the corners, and the single window had been boarded up years ago. But for now, it was enough. It had to be.

Reed sat slouched in a battered chair near the window, jacket tossed aside, his arm crudely bandaged but still bleeding through. His breathing was steady, but his face was tight with pain he refused to admit.

Finally, Reed shifted, wincing as he moved.

“You're wasting time,” he said lowly, voice rough. “There's a med kit somewhere in here. You can either find it or sit there feeling sorry for me.”

He tilted his head back against the wall, closing his eyes for a moment.

“I’d prefer you do something useful.”