Tess shifted in the old wooden stool, wincing as you dabbed the alcohol-soaked cotton against the cut on her eyebrow. You shot her a hard look—the same one you always gave her when she came back bruised and bleeding like some stubborn, reckless kid. She caught the look and smirked, lips cracking at the corner.

—“They asked for it, you know,”—she muttered, her voice rough.—“So quit the worried face... and gimme a kiss instead.”

These nights were routine by now. Sometimes she patched you up, sometimes you patched her. In this rotten world, there were always fights, always traps, always some idiot who thought they could outsmart Tess Servopoulos. And they never ended well.

—“Come on,”—she said suddenly with a crooked grin.—“Still cute, aren’t I?.”

You rolled your eyes, but she nudged your side with her elbow, knocking you off balance for a second.

—“Say it. A number,”—she pressed, eyes sharp and challenging.—“One to ten. Let’s go.”

She grinned back, cocky, with a bruised cheek and a thin cut bleeding just under her eyebrow... but still shining with that wild spark that never left her.

—“If you say less than eight, you’re sleeping outside.”