Helios stared at Dante in disbelief as he collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. A dark, gaping hole marked the center of his forehead—right where the bullet had struck.
"Shit," Helios cursed under his breath.
He wiped the sweat from his brow and quickly looked around. The three assassins Dante had fought earlier were still lying on the ground. Helios itched to wrap his hand around one of his poison syringes, but whoever had fired the shot hadn't revealed themselves. He couldn't risk exposing his intentions too soon.
Luckily, Helios knew which direction the attacker would come from.
Heart pounding, he turned toward the end of the alley—the path they had originally planned to escape through. He forced himself to take a deep breath. He just had to survive... five more minutes. Five minutes until Dante would regain control of his body and the deadly wound would heal.
Five minutes. It sounded like an eternity.
Helios could feel the adrenaline surging through his veins. His senses were razor-sharp, his nerves stretched taut like wires about to snap.
As if to mock him, the burning in his chest reminded him how little strength he had left. The chase had drained him. His breath came in ragged gasps, his pulse pounding like a sledgehammer. He wasn't made for fighting. Never had been.
Usually, everything he did took place in controlled environments. He had always been able to avoid danger by staying out of the line of fire, keeping to the sidelines. He had never truly needed to run for his life.
But now he was in the middle of chaos, with no idea how it would end.
He wasn't built for this, and for the first time, a part of him genuinely wished he had listened to Davis. If only he had trained his body a little—maybe he wouldn't be this winded. Maybe he'd have the strength to fight back.
Would he survive? Would he die?
The most pressing question: could he even last long enough for Dante to wake up?
The odds of dying before Dante regained consciousness were terrifyingly high. He took another deep breath of the cold night air, trying to steady himself— when a metallic click echoed through the alley.
He froze.
Quickly, he scanned the dimly lit alley again, trying to reassess the situation. Other than the rusty dumpster, there was nothing he could use for cover.
"Show yourself," he called out, his voice deliberately calm.
Footsteps answered—but no voice. The assassin clearly wasn't in the mood to talk. But he was coming.
Helios tensed. He had to stay alert in case the assassin suddenly opened fire. His mind raced through every possible scenario that might save his skin. He discarded nearly all of them just as quickly—they relied on strength he didn't have.
The assassin was a good shot—if he fired, Helios would be dead. No question about it.
A smile tugged at the corners of Helios' lips. Well, if nothing else, this was certainly thrilling. All he had were his syringes and his scalpel. Both only effective at close range, while the assassin could attack from a distance with ease. He had to act fast.
A shot cracked through the alley.
Helios hurled himself to the side—reflexively, faster than he ever thought himself capable of. A burning pain tore through his left upper arm. It hurt like hell, though he couldn't tell whether it was just a graze or a clean hit. The fresh wound burned worse than anything he'd ever endured.
He hit the ground awkwardly, scrambled to his feet, and crawled behind the dumpster.
He could feel the blood soaking through his coat. Dante's jacket—he'd lost it somewhere along the way. And now it was cold. So damn cold. Even though his body was running on high alert, adrenaline pumping, it wasn't enough to keep him warm. If anything, the sweat only made it worse. The icy wind bit through his clothes, chilling his soaked skin.
He really wished he hadn't lost that jacket. It had been so wonderfully warm.
Footsteps echoed to his right. The silent assassin had apparently decided to approach, now that Helios refused to come out of hiding.
Helios gritted his teeth, trying to ignore the searing, burning pain radiating from the gunshot wound. His gaze darted to Dante, still lying motionless on the ground.
His hand slipped into his coat pocket, fingers wrapping tightly around one of the prepared syringes. He gripped it as firmly as he could.
Slowly, he pushed himself up, careful not to make a sound.
As the footsteps drew closer, an idea struck him.
He slipped the syringe back into his pocket and instead reached for a nearby garbage bag. He grabbed it with both hands—he had no clue what was inside, and judging by the rancid smell, he didn't want to find out.
He waited a heartbeat longer. Then, with a wide arc, he swung the bag out from behind the dumpster. The assassin was still a few meters away—far enough to not be hit, but close enough to be surprised.
Helios let the bag fly—and to his own shock, it struck the target dead-on.
He almost laughed out loud.
Without missing a beat, he grabbed his scalpel and lunged after the bag, just as the assassin raised his arm to deflect it. But Helios was already there.
With a yell, he threw himself at the man, slamming into him with full force.
Together, they crashed to the ground.
Breathing heavily, Helios sat on the assassin's stomach, his knees pressing down into the man's armpits. The assassin let out a strained groan of pain, so Helios increased the pressure. He hoped he was cutting off blood flow through the arteries—at the very least, the assassin's arms were temporarily useless.
He held the tip of his scalpel firmly against the man's chin. The syringe, he decided, was better saved for an emergency.
He brushed the damp, disheveled hair out of his sweat-soaked face. A triumphant grin curled his lips. Adrenaline surged through him, electric and intoxicating. Was this how the great killers of the past felt when they brought their victims to the ground?
For Helios, it was almost euphoric.
"Who sent you?" he asked.
The assassin looked at him coolly. "I don't reveal my clients."
Helios nodded slowly. "That wasn't a request."
Deliberately, he pressed the blade into the skin just below the chin. A thick drop of blood welled up.
The assassin didn't even flinch. He didn't move, didn't resist. His defiance was infuriating.
Helios clicked his tongue."All right then. If you won't talk, you'll suffer," he said with a shrug.
Without further warning, he shifted his grip, set the scalpel lower, and sliced through the tendon of the pectoral muscle beneath the assassin's armpit.
There was a sickening snap. The assassin screamed in pain.
Helios immediately pressed the blade back to the man's throat.
"So?" he asked in a sugary sweet voice. "Which bastard wants me dead?"
"You piece of shit!" the assassin snarled, baring his teeth in fury and agony.
Suddenly, he slapped the scalpel from Helios' hand. Before Helios could react, he was flipped onto his back, the assassin pinning him beneath his weight. The scalpel went flying—he couldn't tell where it landed.
The assassin had him completely overpowered.
Helios' arms were pinned above his head, his legs trapped by the assassin's body. He was utterly immobilized.
"Wow," the assassin sneered, grinning through the pain. "You're weaker than a damn toddler."
Helios couldn't help but laugh, breathless but defiant.
"Oh? Does it hurt?" he said mockingly. "If you've got that much energy to talk shit, you can damn well answer my question. One more time—who sent you?"
"Sorry, kid," the assassin hissed again. "I don't give up my clients."
Helios snorted in frustration and rolled his eyes. "Everyone has a price. Name yours."
The assassin paused, caught off guard—just for a moment, barely longer than a blink.
He's just like Spider, Helios thought, annoyed. But it worked in his favor. It would buy him a little more time.
"That wasn't a joke," he said with a smirk. "Come on, name your price. I'm pretty damn sure I've got more money than whoever's paying you right now. If you're here to kill me, then you clearly know who I am."
Hands suddenly closed around his throat.
"They're paying me plenty to kill your arrogant little ass," the assassin snarled. "And I'm not exactly in the mood to negotiate."
So he wasn't going to go for it. Pity.
The assassin's grip tightened. Even if he couldn't apply much strength with his injured right hand, his hands were big enough that just one was enough to choke him out.
Helios gasped. Pressure exploded in his skull. Stars danced across his vision.
He was strong—strong like Dante had been, that one time. Back then, Helios had barely been able to do anything, and it was no different now.
His fingers clawed at the assassin's wrists, nails digging into skin until blood welled up. But it didn't help. Every attempt to draw breath ended in a horrible, choking sound that scared even him. His breathing turned into weak wheezing—then nothing.
How long has Dante been out? Has he had enough time to regenerate?
He didn't know. Maybe this was it. Maybe this was the moment he died.
His hands dropped limply to his sides. He reached for the syringes in his coat—but the assassin's knee was pressing down, blocking the pocket.
Shit. If this isn't the dumbest way to die...
Everything flickered black. His vision tunneled. Time was running out.
But just as he was certain he was going to die, the weight crushing him was suddenly ripped away.
With a ragged gasp, Helios rolled to the side. Air flooded his burning lungs, sharp and cold. His arms trembled uncontrollably—he could barely keep himself propped up.
Moments later, Dante was at his side.
His voice sounded distant, warped like it was underwater. He kept calling Helios' name.
"Wait… just give me a second…" Helios rasped.
The more air filled his lungs, the better he felt—though it wasn't like he was about to start skipping through the city with joy.
With Dante's help, he slowly sat up. Pain flared up in his arm again, and Helios reflexively clutched the spot where the bullet had hit. His coat was soaked with blood.
A strained sound of pain escaped him—immediately followed by another coughing fit. Once he'd managed to steady himself, he looked up into Dante's worried face.
"You okay?" Dante asked, his voice laced with guilt. "Damn it… if only I hadn't gotten shot…"
"You took a bullet to the head…" Helios rasped. He swallowed hard. "…what were you supposed to do?" His gaze drifted through the alley. "My scalpel… and… the case…"
"Can you sit on your own for a minute?" Dante asked.
Helios nodded.
Dante got up and started searching the alley while Helios focused on breathing steadily. His eyes wandered through the darkness. He could vaguely make out the assassin who had nearly strangled him to death—now lying motionless on the ground.
His heart was still pounding, and more than anything, he just wanted a shower and a bed. It felt like an eternity before Dante's heavy footsteps returned.
A warm jacket was draped over his shoulders.
"Don't… I'll bleed all over it," Helios croaked, though he still pulled it tighter around himself. It was wonderfully warm. And strangely enough, Dante's scent on it calmed him.
"Blood? Shit—where are you bleeding? This alley's way too dark!" Dante growled.
"Left upper arm… there should be wraps in my case," Helios murmured. His throat still felt raw, but at least he didn't have to cough with every word anymore.
He heard the sound of fabric tearing, then felt Dante's fingers gently probing around the wound. When they reached the open flesh, Helios bit his lip hard to keep from crying out. A few moments later, the bandage was in place.
Dante exhaled heavily and wrapped the jacket around Helios once more.
"Can you walk? We need to get out of here before more show up."
Helios shook his head. "Help me up."
Dante helped him to his feet, but dizziness washed over him immediately. He collapsed against Dante, who caught him without hesitation and simply lifted him into his arms.
He carried him out of the alley.
Helios rested his head against Dante's chest and closed his eyes. He could afford to rest a bit until they reached the hotel. He was exhausted and didn't want to think about anything anymore.
Dante had handled everything.
The assassins were gone.
___
"Helios, wake up."
Dante's voice cut through the haze of exhaustion and pain that clung to Helios like a heavy fog. Slowly, he opened his eyes, squinting against the harsh glare of the ceiling light. He recognized it instantly—the hotel room.
He jolted upright, his hand flying instinctively to his throat. The skin felt crushed and bruised, as if someone had tightened a vice around his neck.
"Easy," Dante said gently, placing a calming hand on his shoulder.
"How long was I out?" Helios' voice was rough and raspy, like he'd swallowed sand.
"We just got here," Dante reassured. "Do you think you can cut the bullets out of my back? I can barely move with them still in."
Helios coughed. "Give me the case," he said, as he carefully moved to sit on the edge of the bed.
But Dante didn't budge.
"Dante. The case."
He shook his head. "It's gone. Couldn't salvage it."
"Don't mess with me. It was right next to the dumpster," Helios said, coughing quietly.
Dante shook his head again. "The case was practically dissolved. There was nothing left to save."
Helios' expression went rigid. "Impossible… I threw every bit of acid I had at the assassins, but… it couldn't have hit the whole thing…"
"Are you sure all the vials shattered?" Dante asked pointedly.
Helios racked his brain—so much had happened during the fight. It had all moved too fast. He honestly didn't know.
He shook his head in disbelief. "Shit," he muttered. "Everything I packed for the trip was in there."
Dante handed him the scalpel. "Not everything."
Helios took it, inspecting the clean, sharp blade. Dante had even sanitized it.
"That leaves us with… two poison syringes and one with a sedative," he muttered, frustrated.
"Then we shouldn't waste the sedative." Dante turned and pulled his shirt off one shoulder. "Just cut them out."
"That's going to hurt like hell. I don't have forceps, or tweezers, or… anything," Helios croaked.
"I know. Just make it quick," Dante said evenly.
"You sure?"
"Yeah."
"Where?"
"Right shoulder blade. You should be able to feel them," Dante said.
Helios coughed again, cleared his throat, and stepped closer.
"I see two. Grit your teeth," he murmured.
He positioned the scalpel and began making incisions—ones that could have been cleaner, had he been in better shape and without trembling hands. With all the strength he could muster, he dug the bullets out of Dante's shoulder blade, then checked the rest of his back.
Dante let out quiet, pained sounds as Helios worked. Blood from the minor surgery clung to Dante's back and Helios' hands.
Aside from the two bullets, there was nothing else.
Helios watched with fascination as the wounds slowly began to close.
Dante eventually stood and walked over to the table where a bowl of hot water and some cloths had been set up.
"I didn't have time to boil them properly, but it should do. Take your clothes off."
Helios carefully slid the jacket from his shoulders. Dante removed the makeshift bandage. Then came the shirt—awkwardly, painfully, Helios pulled it over his head. Every movement ached.
Dante began cleaning the wound gently. Helios flinched when the damp cloth touched the raw, open skin.
He clenched his jaw. He had no other option—his case was gone, after all.
"Sorry."
"How does it look?" Helios asked in a whisper.
"Worse than it is. Just a graze. Deep, but not dangerous," Dante replied. "Do we have anything left for stitching?"
"In the travel bag. I unpacked a few things. Didn't think the sewing kit would be that important."
"Lucky for you."
Helios sighed. "Yeah. I'm just full of good fortune," he said sarcastically.
Another cough rattled his chest—the damn scratchy feeling in his throat refused to go away. Dante glanced at him with concern, then stood and fetched the sewing kit.
He stitched the wound in silence.
As he worked, his gaze drifted to the bruises around Helios' neck. His expression darkened with guilt.
He was probably remembering the time he had once choked Helios himself.
"It wasn't you," Helios said hoarsely.
"I know," Dante replied distantly, "but it looks exactly the same as it did a few weeks ago."
He brushed his thumb gently along Helios' neck. Helios winced at the touch.
Dante's face twisted in alarm. "Are you okay?!"
"Yeah. Just feels like shit."
"Are you getting enough air?" Dante asked, visibly worried.
"Yes."
"Open your mouth," Dante said firmly.
Helios rolled his eyes but obeyed. Dante leaned in and shone a small flashlight inside.
"I don't think there's much swelling," he murmured, exhaling in relief.
Helios closed his mouth again. Dante looked at him. For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the ticking of the cheap hotel clock filling the silence.
"Well, that's something," Helios said with a sly smile. "He didn't have full strength anyway."
"Why?" Dante's brow furrowed as he continued examining Helios' neck.
A rough laugh escaped Helios' throat, quickly turning into a cough. Still, he couldn't hide the grin tugging at his lips.
"Because I cut his pectoral tendon," he said, a hint of pride in his voice.
Dante straightened and stared at him—caught somewhere between surprise and disbelief.
"You did what…?" Then he sighed and shook his head. "Sometimes I seriously wonder what's wrong with you. But in moments like this, I'm damn glad you know the human body so well." He met Helios' gaze. "I'm really glad you made it… while I was just lying there like a useless sack of bones."
"I had more luck than anything else," Helios admitted.
"Doesn't matter how—you pulled it off. That's what counts," Dante said. He stood and walked over to their travel bag. "I need to destroy one of your shirts."
Helios waved him off. "Go ahead. Pick one you don't like."
Dante pulled out a cotton shirt and tore it into strips with practiced ease, laying them neatly on the bed next to Helios.
"Wait. Let me shower or take a bath first," Helios said hoarsely. "I want all this crap off me before you wrap me up."
"Helios, I'm gonna be honest—you look like shit," Dante said seriously.
Helios raised a brow. "Exactly why I want to clean up."
"You sure you won't pass out in there?"
He absolutely wasn't sure. In fact, he was pretty sure he would pass out. Still, he stood up—and immediately swayed. Dante caught him. Helios clutched his arm, digging his fingers in for support. They were both filthy. Blood, sweat, and grime clung to their skin.
He looked at Dante—there was no way in hell he was going to sleep before getting clean.
"I'm not as fit as I thought," he murmured. "Help me shower."
Dante frowned. "You want to... shower with me?"
"Dante, I smell like a damn landfill and look like a fucking murder victim. I need your help. So come on," Helios snapped, clearly irritated. "Besides, you don't look or smell much better yourself."
Dante stared at him, confused. His mouth opened, then closed again, as if he didn't quite know how to respond.
Helios pushed away from him and staggered a few steps forward.
"It's fine. I can do it on my own," he said quietly, though he barely had the strength to stay upright.
He had just reached the bathroom when his hand latched onto the doorframe. He stood there, clinging to it as if it were the only thing keeping him from collapsing. He was completely out of breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead.
"You can't even walk by yourself," Dante said, guilt evident in his voice. He stepped forward, wrapped an arm around Helios' waist, and helped steady him. "Let me help."
Helios exhaled slowly. He was grateful. Just the short trip from the bed to the bathroom had drained every ounce of strength from his body. More than anything, he just wanted to wash up and crawl into bed. He was beyond exhausted.
"Thank you," he whispered.
Helios let Dante guide him into the bathroom. One look in the mirror confirmed what he already knew: he looked like hell. Pale, sweaty, smeared with blood and dirt, his bare torso was covered in bruises and scrapes.
He looked awful.
With an exasperated sigh, he didn't hesitate any longer. He stripped off his pants and underwear, then stepped into the shower. He cranked the water as hot as it would go.
He didn't care that Dante could see him completely naked. He didn't care what he might be thinking. He was done. His body had nothing left to give.
He slid down against the cool tiles, letting the scalding water run over him. Slowly, the cold began to leave his bones. He grabbed his body wash and tried to scrub the filth from his skin—but it clung stubbornly, as if the night had soaked into him.
He was dizzy. His throat burned. He still couldn't breathe properly. Just as his legs gave out completely, Dante was there. He caught him before he could slip on the wet floor. He held him gently, and Helios didn't mind the touch. Without Dante, he might've broken something. It felt like even the last traces of adrenaline had finally drained from his system.
"Sit down," Dante said softly, his voice full of concern.
Helios let him guide him until he was seated on the shower floor. He held his head in his hands and closed his eyes. The dizziness was overwhelming.
Thankfully, the shower was open—wide enough that Dante's broad frame could fit inside as well.
Helios sank down onto the shower floor. "I'm dizzy," he whispered.
"You should finish up quickly and lie down," Dante said, worried.
Helios nodded. He let Dante help him wash his hair. Dante scrubbed his back and helped him rinse away the dirt until he he was satisfied. His hands were careful, gentle with every touch. Again and again, he glanced at Helios with concern.
Helios was so tired he almost fell asleep right there in the shower. And yet, despite the exhaustion, it felt strangely intimate to shower with his guardian.
He absently watched the water run down Dante's muscles, and not for the first time thought that the man had a seriously impressive physique. Helios doubted he'd ever manage to train himself into anything even close—and he didn't want to, really. But he had to admit the way the defined muscles fit Dante… it suited him.
If he weren't so tired, he might've wanted to reach out and touch them. But his arms felt like lead. His eyes kept falling shut. He was so exhausted, he didn't even notice when Dante washed himself. After drying off, Helios wrapped himself in a towel and sank to the floor, waiting for Dante to help him back to bed.
There was no way he'd have made it alone.
While Dante showered, Helios' eyelids drooped again and again. He kept dozing off in short bursts. When Dante was done, he picked Helios up and carried him to the bed. Helios dressed sluggishly, then collapsed into the pillows. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, surrendering to the warmth. He drew the covers as high as they would go and closed his eyes.
"You sure you're okay?" Dante asked again, still clearly worried.
"Yeah. Just tired."
"Do you need anything?"
"No," Helios breathed.
Sleep pulled him under, deeper and deeper, until Dante's voice became just a faint echo in the background.
His sleeping pills had been in the case—gone, like everything else.
But as exhausted as he was, he had no doubt he'd sleep like the dead tonight.