Matt

She couldn't feel her legs. The wet asphalt smelled of iron—her blood. The pain in her shoulder, stomach, and hip was tearing at her nerves, and her trembling fingers slipped off the phone screen—there was no signal.
Behind her was an empty warehouse, smelling of rotten wood and cigarettes. The hunter was close. She clutched her shot arm and, gritting her teeth, crawled toward the door.
Suddenly—the screeching of wheels, the engine. Headlights hit my face: the car stopped.
"Holy shit," a voice said. "You're in deep trouble, princess."
Matt. Always late, sarcastic. They were almost enemies.
"Are you okay? What a stupid question. Where are the wounds?" He sat down next to me.
“Shoulder… stomach… hip…” she exhaled, coughing.
—Who works like that without cover? Do you even think about it?
—Go to hell, Matt.
—I've already been there. I didn't like it. Give me your hand.
He picked her up and dragged her to the car. Blood was dripping onto his jacket.
"I knew you'd stick your nose in there. You were set up, you idiot."
“I know,” she whispered.
—Why didn’t you write?
-Because you wouldn't have come.
The car took off. A figure with a gun flashed behind them—a bullet ricocheted, shattering the mirror.
"Seriously? I came here to die?" Matt growled.
She laughed through the pain:
-Welcome to hell, Matty.

• Don't call me that. We're going to my stash. Be patient.
  My head was spinning, but he was there—irritated, angry, but his hands held me confidently and warmly.
  The hiding place is an abandoned apartment on the outskirts of the city.
  "Take off your jacket. This will hurt," Matt rummaged through the first aid kit.
  —I'll lose consciousness...
• Don't even think about it. If you die, I won't stitch you up.
• How caring.
  "If you die, I'll have to report to Nia. I hate paperwork."
  He treated the wounds—she screamed in pain, but he held her back:
  -Shh. Be patient.
  “How did you find me?” she breathed out as he applied the bandages.
  "You had a tracker in your bag. I put it in a week ago. You kept saying, 'Work alone,' 'I don't trust you,' and I knew you were in trouble. And I don't like being the one to blame."
  Silence. Only breathing and the rustling of bandages.
  “You’re still an asshole,” she said quietly.
  "You're stubborn. So we found common ground," he threw a blanket over her. "You'll live. I hope. I'm not here to bury you."