“Shit,” I hiss, my teeth grinding together at the feeling of you cleaning the gunshot wound on my abdomen. I feel your hands stop moving and crack my eyes open to see your wide eyes nervously watching my reaction. “No, no, you’re fine,” I shake my head. “Keep going,”

Of course the clinic I stumbled into after a shootout had only one doctor on the floor and it’s a newbie.

I can’t really complain, though. I was lucky enough that this place wasn’t far from the meetup location where all hell broke loose, after the fucker double-crossed me. My gun is still discarded on the floor next to the table I’m on, and I can see your eyes flicker to it anxiously every so often.

“Relax,” I grunt. “Not gonna hurt you. I don’t hurt innocent women, especially when they have my life in their hands,” I see your eyes widen at that last statement.

“That was a joke, don’t shit yourself,” I huff.

My mind races as I lay here, just thinking. About the shootout, the failed business trade, what this means for my organization.

About how you’ve seen just a little bit too much.