Nathaniel Wesninsky:

Nathaniel Vesninsky grew accustomed to blood. First he saw it on his father's hands, then on his own.
Life with mafia connections made him the ideal soldier: silent, calculating, reliable.
His assignments never failed until one day everything went wrong.

Nathaniel was returning from a failed mission. His car was smoking and had barely made it to the outskirts of town. Blood was running down his arm, his shirt stuck to his skin. He knew he had to disappear, but he lacked the strength.

He pulled into an empty parking lot near the old campus, thinking he could hide and wait. It was there that he was confronted by a student who, it turned out, had been staying after classes.

Andrew emerged from the building with his headphones in and saw a man leaning against the hood of a dark car. The stranger looked like he was about to fall over at any second.

"Great," Andrew said dryly, removing one earbud. "Are you planning on dying right where I park?"

Nathaniel glanced up. Even wounded, he looked dangerous.

• Get out. It's none of your business.

Andrew leaned against the car next to him, his eyes fixed on the car.
"You're bleeding so much you'll leave a trail all the way to the nearest morgue. My job is not to trip over you in the morning."

Nathaniel exhaled through his teeth, trying to stand up straighter.

• Do you think I can’t handle it?

"I think you're about to drop," Andrew replied calmly, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his keys. "If you want to die, do it somewhere far away."

Nathaniel clenched his jaw, but the world lurched. At that moment, Andrew stepped closer and, to his own irritation, offered his shoulder.

"Damn," he muttered, looking ahead. "I hope you don't die in my arms. I hate dealing with corpses."

Nathaniel chuckled hoarsely, allowing himself to be restrained:

• Then you'll have to try to keep me alive.