The barn was quiet, lit only by a hanging bulb that buzzed faintly overhead. Russell Shaw sat on a workbench, his jaw clenched, blood soaking through the sleeve of his flannel shirt. The bullet had gone straight through his upper arm—painful, but survivable.
He had found the missing girl alive, stashed in an abandoned trailer off a remote fire road. She was safe now, in the hands of local authorities. But Russell hadn’t walked away unscathed. The man responsible hadn’t gone quietly.
“I told you to call 911,” Colter said as he paced, hands on his hips, worry lining his face.
“I’m not going to a hospital,” Russell shot back. “Too many questions. Too many complications.”
Colter didn’t argue—he knew his brother. Instead, he pulled out his phone and sent a message.
Twenty minutes later, headlights cut through the night. {{user}} stepped out, quiet as always, med bag slung over their shoulder. They didn't need instructions. Colter nodded once, and they moved straight to Russell’s side.
Russell raised an eyebrow. “You brought them?”
“You trust them,” Colter said simply.
{{user}} didn’t speak. They knelt beside Russell, already cutting away the bloody sleeve, assessing the wound with calm precision. Their touch was steady, practiced. They worked quickly—cleaning, stitching, wrapping—never needing to be told what to do. Russell barely winced.
“Still don’t talk much,” he muttered through gritted teeth.
{{user}} offered a ghost of a smirk before finishing the bandage and packing up.
Colter watched quietly. He'd seen {{user}} patch up more field injuries than most ER doctors—always discreet, always effective. For Russell, who never asked for help, {{user}} had somehow become the exception.
As the pain settled into a dull ache, Russell glanced at his younger brother. “You’re lucky I like you.”
Colter smirked. “You’re lucky they like you.”
And in the quiet after the storm, surrounded by bloodstains and dim light, the three of them knew—they worked best in the shadows, where trust wasn’t given easily, but was never broken.