Elijah nervously gnced at the man in his arms. The strength in the stranger's grip was overwhelming, his fingers digging into Elijah's wrist with an intensity that sent a jolt of pain through him. Elijah's breath hitched, and he winced slightly, but the man didn't seem to notice.

  "You're bleeding a lot," Elijah murmured, his voice faltering as his eyes flicked to the man's wound. "I should call an ambunce..." He fumbled for his phone, his fingers trembling as he typed in the emergency number.

  But before Elijah could hit send, the man's blood-soaked hand covered the screen, his grip an unspoken plea for Elijah to stop.

  "Not the ambunce," the man rasped, his voice rough and strained but still commanding.

  "But you're badly hurt... this is serious," Elijah stammered, his mind racing. He gnced at the man's face again—his eyes unfocused, his pale skin drenched in sweat. The sight twisted Elijah's stomach in knots.

  After a beat of hesitation, Elijah tried again, his voice softer, more uncertain. "Do you want me to call someone else? A family member? A friend?" He caught the man's weak, pained expression, and for a moment, Elijah felt a pang in his chest, the kind of sorrow he knew too well.

  His thoughts drifted, unbidden, to the memory of his brother. The same hollow ache spread through him as he recalled the night his brother had died—caught in the crossfire of two rival gangs. No one had helped him. No one had rushed him to the hospital.

  He had bled out, suffering through a slow, excruciating death because no one acted fast enough. It was the kind of death that lingered long after, suffocating your thoughts and haunting your nights. Elijah's throat tightened at the painful recollection.

  He blinked hard, trying to push the memory away. When his gaze returned to the injured man, he saw something in those eyes—something desperate and familiar—that made Elijah's chest tighten even more. The man reminded him of his brother.

  Without thinking, Elijah made a decision, the words escaping him before he could stop them. "Let me take you to my home. I live nearby."

  The man's eyes flickered, confusion clouding them for a moment, but the pain in his expression was enough to make Elijah act. Without waiting for a reply, he moved to help the stranger to his feet. The man was taller than him, his body more solid and built, but Elijah gritted his teeth and steadied him. Each step was slow and careful as Elijah guided him forward, his own muscles straining under the weight, the urgency of the situation weighing heavily on him.

  The walk to Elijah's apartment felt like it took an eternity. His hands shook as he supported the stranger, and every movement felt heavier than the st. Finally, they reached the door. Elijah fumbled for the keys, heart hammering in his chest, and hurriedly opened it. He ushered the man inside, feeling a rush of relief once they were through the door.

  The apartment was small but cozy, a stark contrast to the chaos of the city outside. The soft lighting and warm wood tones made it feel like a sanctuary. Elijah felt a fleeting sense of calm as he guided the man to the brown sofa that took up most of the living room. His heart raced with the urgency of it all, but his focus remained fixed on the injured man.

  "Stay here. Don't move," Elijah said quickly, before turning to the kitchen. His mind was spinning as he grabbed a gss of water, trying to steady his hands. He brought it back to the man, offering it to him with a soft, shaking hand. "Here... you need to drink."

  The man's gaze flickered up at him, weary but grateful. Elijah could see the exhaustion in his face, the tension in his body. The bloodied bandage had already soaked through, and the man shifted uncomfortably, his eyes tracking Elijah as he sat beside him.

  "I... I don't know how to help you," Elijah stammered. "I've never done this before. Just... just tell me what you need, and I'll get it."

  The man's gaze softened, but the pain was still there—lurking in his eyes. He nodded slowly, voice barely a whisper. "I need a clean cloth. Some gauze. And antiseptic. If you have anything stronger for the pain, that'd be good."

  Elijah nodded quickly. "I... I'll be right back," he said, trying to calm himself. His head was spinning, but he knew he had to act—for this man, whoever he was.

  His mind now focused on the task at hand, Elijah pushed aside the fear and uncertainty, his pulse still racing.

  Elijah's apartment was small but functional. The living room featured a faded brown couch, a modest wooden coffee table, and a few mismatched chairs scattered about. The kitchen, open to the living area, had dark cabinets, a small fridge, and a sink piled with dishes Elijah had been too tired to clean earlier. A wooden counter held a few bottles of spices and a jar of flour. It was a simple life, just like he wanted. But now, the weight of the stranger's injuries made the space feel custrophobic, as if every corner was filled with tension.

  *******************

  As Elijah rushed out to get supplies, the man—his strength not entirely gone—focused on something more urgent. His breath came in sharp, shallow gasps as he made his way to the kitchen. Pain radiated from his abdomen, but he pushed it aside. The bullet had lodged deep in his side, but by some twist of fate, it hadn't hit any major organs.

  With slow, deliberate movements, the man retrieved a sharp knife from Elijah's modest kitchen drawer. His fingers, slick with sweat and blood, trembled, and a dull fog clouded his thoughts. His mind was sluggish, his movements slower than they should have been, like his body was reacting a few seconds too te. His head was heavy, his focus wavering. The bite of pain from the wound barely registered as he fought to stay clear-headed.

  Gritting his teeth, he knew he needed to remove the bullet before it caused further damage—or worse, an infection. He gripped the knife tightly and, with grim determination, made a clean incision along the wound. The pain was intense, but he didn't flinch. Carefully, he dug into the wound, feeling the metal of the bullet embedded deep in his flesh. His fingers trembled, but after a few moments, the jagged bullet slid free. He wiped away the blood with a cloth, making sure there were no remnants left behind. The wound was deep, but if treated quickly, it wasn't life-threatening.

  ******************

  When Elijah returned, he found the man sitting back on the sofa, breathing deeply. Blood stained his hands, but his face held a mask of focus. He had done what was needed—he had survived, for now.

  Elijah rushed forward with the gauze, antiseptic, and painkillers. He knelt beside the man and began applying the treatment as the man directed.

  "You're sure you don't want to go to a hospital?" Elijah asked again, his voice soft, filled with concern.

  The man's gaze remained steady, despite the sharp, lingering pain. "No hospitals," he replied, his voice cold and final.

  Elijah frowned, his worry deepening, but the man wasn't offering any more information. Elijah didn't press him. Instead, he focused on bandaging the wound, the quiet ticking of the clock the only sound between them.