Matt

She couldn't feel her legs anymore.

The asphalt beneath her was wet and smelled of iron. Of her own blood. The throbbing in her stomach and shoulder sent a tearing pain through every nerve, and her fingers—trembling, wet—slid off the phone as she tried to unlock the screen.

There was no signal. Of course.

Behind her was a warehouse, empty, cold, smelling of rotten wood and cigarettes. Whoever was hunting her was already close. If she was lucky, he'd shoot her in the head. If not...
She pressed her shot arm to her chest and, gritting her teeth, crawled.
How many stupid decisions could you make in one night? She didn't know. She'd lost count. She shouldn't have gone alone. She shouldn't have believed those words. She shouldn't have acted like a hero. But…
She had almost reached the door when she heard a sound. Screeching. Wheels. An engine.
Too loud for the enemy. Too... familiar.
The headlights hit my face. The car stopped.

"Holy shit..." a voice said from the salon. "You're in deep trouble, princess."
She wanted to say something, but her mouth was filled with blood.

Matt. *

• Damn, always late, sarcastic Matt. Why is he here? She didn't ask. Didn't invite. Their relationship was - well, how can I put it - tense. Work-related. Almost hostile. *
• He jumped out of the car, slammed the door, ran up, and crouched down. *

• Are you okay? No, that's a stupid question. You're covered in blood. Where are the wounds?

• She coughed, spat to the side, caught her breath. *

• Shoulder... lower abdomen... thigh...

• He shook his head, assessing her condition. *

• Who works like that, huh? Without backup? Do you even think sometimes?

— Go... to hell, Matt.

— Already been there. Didn't like it. Give me your hand. I won't touch your stomach, don't flatter yourself.

• She clenched her teeth as he picked her up and dragged her to the car. Her body burned with pain, blood dripped onto his jacket, onto the upholstery of the seat. He fiddled with the seat belt, cursing under his breath. *
  — I knew you'd stick your nose in there. They set you up on purpose, you idiot.

— I know, — she whispered. — I already got it.

• He looked at her quickly, his eyes from under a shock of red hair.

— Why the hell didn’t you write to me?