We didn't waste time. The corridor was still ringing in my ears from the fight, the metallic tang of adrenaline sharp on my tongue. Mayumi dragged a battered wheelbarrow from a supply closet and used it to haul the stalking bastard's limp body. He cursed occasionally, a wet, humorless sound, but he didn't fight hard, his training had clearly taught him how to survive pain rather than resist it.
Reina moved like someone who had rehearsed triage scenarios a thousand times: efficient, hands steady. She produced a pair of temporary restraints from her med kit, zip-ties and a strip of cloth to stop the bleeding in his lip. "No theatrics," she said to me without looking up. "We contain. We question. We don't play judge." She had the voice of someone who'd seen what revenge does to people; she wanted answers, not more corpses.
