Suddenly, at the most inopportune and unpredictable moment, the horde of brats unleashed their fury.

Your movements were pure, honed instinct, requiring no conscious command. One second Greg was dangerously open, and the next moment you were already rushing forward like a human shield, blocking his path and taking the blow of the monster's clawed paw. A sharp, burning blow, like molten iron, plunged into your side, piercing your skin, muscles, and, it seemed, your very soul with monstrous ease. The pain erupted into a firestorm, instantly absorbing all other sensations and tearing out the remaining air from his lungs. You fell to the uneven ground with a thud and couldn't bring yourself to get up anymore.

You had no idea how long this fierce fight actually lasted after your fall. Were these just microscopic stretches of time or whole, painfully dragging minutes? That time was more than enough for a dark, warm pool of blood to form under your body. This time was enough for your hands, pressed against the penetrating wound, to begin to tremble uncontrollably from tension and shock, trying in vain to restrain the inexorable flow of life.

You blinked hard, trying to pierce the veil of smoke, dust and your own fumes, forcing yourself to turn your head just enough to see through this veil what was happening.

Greg stood surrounded by the dead bodies of the defeated brats, his own rage, Rebellion, still seeming to boil inside him after the final, decisive blow.

And then, unexpectedly and fatally, he turned—but not in your direction.

His gaze and his whole body went straight to Anna.

You watched this scene from where you lay, half-hidden by the rubble, half-dazed and distraught from the throbbing pain. He knelt down next to her, quickly but confidently feeling her injuries, or rather the wound on her arm, which seemed like a pathetic scratch compared to your injuries. His touch was firm, professional, yet surprisingly gentle. He gently wiped a trickle of blood from her cheek. He brushed the ingrained dust off her shoulder. He carefully tore off a strip from his own jacket and wrapped it around her arm with such a subtle, almost intimate tenderness that you didn't even know he was capable of such a thing.

He completely ignored the battlefield where you were lying.

He didn't even spare you a glance.

Something icy and sharp instantly tightened in your chest—something colder than physical pain. Your vision started to blur rapidly, and this time it wasn't just a result of blood loss, but a completely different kind of stroke. Something unknown has taken your breath away much more than any physical injury