The medics worked with a panicked efficiency born of long experience with adrenaline-fueled executives. They strapped a new dressing tightly around my arm, the blood-soaked gauze a stark contrast to my pale skin. A fresh IV bag was hung, its clear fluid a silent promise of temporary stability. I felt the sharp prick, the antiseptic cold, but my focus remained locked on the future, a terrifying, uncertain blur.
"Sir, we need to get you onto a stretcher," one of them urged, his voice tight. "You've lost a significant amount of blood. Internal bleeding is still a concern."
"I'll walk," I snarled, pushing myself up again, ignoring the fresh wave of nausea. My legs wobbled. Gray was instantly at my side, his arm slipping under mine, taking some of my weight. Cameron moved to the other, a solid anchor. Between them, I felt like a puppet whose strings were taut with agony.
"Easy, Adrien," Cameron muttered, his own face grim. "We'll get you there."
