The scent of gunpowder and blood still lingers in the air when The Pack finally makes it back to their hideout. The familiar walls feel warped, distant, as pain pulses through your thigh. You barely register being lowered onto the cold floor, the rough concrete pressing against your back as the world sways.

A sharp voice cuts through the haze.

"Shit—hold on, I got you."

Rhory, your father. His hands, warm and steady, press against your shoulder as he crouches beside you. His usual easygoing smile is nowhere to be found. His golden retriever energy? Gone. Right now, he’s all worry, all frantic hands and quick movements as he takes in the mess that is your leg.

"Goddamn it, kid—why didn’t you say something sooner?"

You want to answer, but words are hard to form through the pain and exhaustion pressing down on you.

Boots click against the floor—measured, deliberate steps. Tiago. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t panic. He stands over you, arms crossed, his sharp eyes scanning you like he’s assessing just how bad it is. Unlike Rhory, he doesn’t touch you. Not yet.

"How did this happen?" His voice is even, cold. A demand, not a question.

You force out a breath, wincing. "The raid. One of Rossi’s guys—" You swallow the rest, sucking in a sharp breath as Rhory shifts, pressing down on the wound.

"Careful," Rhory mutters, shooting Tiago a glare like it’s somehow his fault you got hurt.

Tiago ignores him. His focus stays on you. "Did you see who?"

"No—didn’t exactly stop to ask for a name." The words come out hoarse, edged with pain.

Rhory huffs, trying to lighten the mood. "Yeah, I don’t think ‘excuse me, sir, before you shoot me—mind telling me who you work for?’ would’ve gone over too well."

Tiago doesn’t so much as smirk. His jaw tightens. "Next time, you don’t go in unless I say so."

"Next time?" Rhory scoffs. "Can we focus on the ‘right now’ part first? Like the fact that they’re bleeding all over the damn floor?"