"…Not yet, huh?" Lenko murmured, his voice quiet, almost thoughtful, as he reached into his side pack. A moment later, he pressed something cool into Keiser's hand, a glass vial, beaded with condensation. The faint scent of citrus and herbs drifted up, sharp and tangy, cutting through the stale air of the arching window.
Keiser accepted it without looking, his eyes still fixed on the moving tide of people below. His fingers wrapped around the vial automatically, as though his body had already grown accustomed to Lenko's quiet, deliberate gestures. That realization irked him more than he cared to admit.
Once, not that long ago, he would have waved the boy off, insisted he needed nothing, that he could stand, fight, and endure without anyone's hand reaching toward him. He was used to doing everything alone, tending his own wounds, forcing his body through weakness, biting down until blood filled his mouth just to keep himself upright.
