"A/N: This chapter contains bullet removal"
THE woman drove for twenty minutes until she parked the car in front of a simple roadside inn. She had passed by this place before, but never imagined herself entering it with a condemned man in tow. Before they went inside, Nox pulled off her overcoat and threw it over his body, covering him.
She grabbed a baseball cap and a black mask to keep her face hidden, then made sure her long black turtleneck was hiding the blood from her wounded shoulder.
"Room," Nox said in a muffled voice, her hand gripping the young man's wrist firmly as he walked with his head down beside her.
The receptionist was a casually styled young man, wholly absorbed in his phone. He didn't glance at the two figures behind the counter; his skinny arm reached for a key ring and plucked off a single key tagged "7" on a small yellowed square.
"Door seven," he said, chewing gum. The hand that handed over the key felt alternately warm and cold. Before he could look up, the guests had already slipped down the corridor.
The door unlocked, revealing a modestly furnished room to Nox and Maxin. Four pieces of furniture were strategically placed: a light-brown wooden dresser with four drawers, hip-high to Nox, stood near the bathroom; the bed was set about a meter from a medium-sized window draped with a beige curtain; to the right of the entrance, a small rectangular table with two chairs; a two-door wardrobe, about 1.8 meters tall; and a thirty-two-inch TV mounted on the wall. A red rug lay beneath their feet, and floral wallpaper decorated the walls.
Nox turned on the air conditioner immediately after locking the door. From the car she had brought Maxin and a bag containing everything she might need—which, judging by its size, was more like a carry-on travel bag, heavy with more than just clothes.
The assassin laid Maxin on the bed and, after a brief glance, carried her bag into the bathroom and closed the door behind her. Left alone in the room, Maxin lay back on the mattress, inhaling the scent of clean sheets. His arms spread wide; his eyes fixed on the neutral-colored ceiling and its single yellow light as the weight of what had happened began to sink in.
Two days had felt like months. So much had transpired in just forty-eight hours that, if he told anyone, they'd think it the plot of an action movie—and he wondered the same himself. He'd narrowly escaped death once, twice, three times, and had even come close to giving himself up out of a desperate need to belong. He'd done something insane, and now it seemed too late to run.
His thoughts were cut off by the sound of something heavy hitting the bathroom tile. Rising from the bed, he walked over and rapped the door lightly with the back of his hand—so lightly it was like the fall of a feather—until it opened.
The woman stood there with her fist raised, her expression unreadable. Maxin's eyes drifted from her face down her neck to the dark sports bra covering her chest; the slight ripples of her abdomen caught his attention and he swallowed hard, unnerved—not only by her startling beauty, but by the sight of the wound on her shoulder, blood seeping over her pale skin.
"…They shot you?" he asked timidly in a low voice.
"What do you think? Do you feel responsible?" she snapped, a mocking smile briefly crossing her still face. Maxin tried to deny it, but her hand yanked him into the bathroom. "You're going to help me," she ordered the frightened boy.
The bathroom was too narrow for them to stand facing each other, so they had to stand side by side. A medium-sized mirror reflected them both, highlighting the stark contrast between the tall black-haired woman with her swollen face and the young man with wide, light eyes, visibly shaken.
"How ridiculous. I'm the one who's hurt, but you're the one acting like you took the bullet. Reach into my bag and get me a blue bottle, some cotton balls, and that small red pouch. Quickly."
Dazed, Maxin lowered his gaze to the open bag perched on the toilet lid. Go. His hands dove inside and, trembling, he pulled out the emergency kit items she'd asked for—though his fingers brushed over many other things as well.
"Give me the bottle." He handed it over, and a chill ran down his spine as he watched her pour a generous amount of alcohol onto the open wound. The liquid stung her skin, turning it bright red. Maxin spotted a slight wince on her face. Of course she felt pain—she was human after all.
"Ah… Christ… Give me a cloth." He handed her a yellow flannel. "Open the bag again, find the tweezers, and pour some alcohol over them. Hurry, Maxin."
"Can't we… go to a hospital?" he whispered, his voice barely audible.
"Don't be an idiot." She shot him a harsh look. "Come here. I could do this myself, but I can't see with my face this swollen. So come over here, Maxin."
Her "patient" trembled violently, on the verge of a panic attack. He concluded he should run—push her away, sprint for the door, beg for help, call the police, and go back to living in peace. But who was he kidding? He'd never really been alive, and now that people wanted him dead, the assassin at his side—despite having tried to kill him—was the only one who could help him.
In the end, she didn't kill him. She said it was his eyes that saved him. Looking at their reflections in the mirror, Maxin —though flattered—saw nothing about his eyes that could change an assassin's mind. But if that was the reason she kept him alive, he would trust it. Clinging to that fragile shred of hope, he inhaled deeply and moved closer to her, rejecting his urge to flee and feeling her breath against his face.
"Mariah always had terrible aim. That idiot girl spent more time fixing her hair than training… Now I've got a bullet in my shoulder because of her." She sighed. "Let's get this over with."
"I don't want to—please, let's go to the hospital." He knew it was impossible, but still pleaded, tears welling in his eyes.
"Come on, Maxin, all you need to do is pull this thing out of my arm." She barked. "I showed you some consideration and let you have the easy part. Now swallow that whimper and do it right. Please." Her final words, low and hoarse, struck his heart—they were a genuine request. "When you're ready, let me know."
He nodded repeatedly, his heart pounding. Maxin poured alcohol over the tweezers; one hand gripped her elbow, the other held the tweezers between trembling fingertips.
"I… I'm going to start."
He plunged the tip into her flesh slowly, the pain unbearable, sweat beading on both their bodies.
"Be quick—don't torture me." With ragged breaths, she murmured.
Maxin nodded, beads of sweat forming on his forehead beneath his dark hair. The alcohol stench filled his nostrils as he fought to stay calm, diving the tweezers deeper in search of the bullet. Unlike her, whose face barely betrayed any reaction, he felt faint and feared he'd pass out.
Never in his life did Maxin imagine he would do something like this—removing a bullet from the arm of the person who wanted him dead. What a strange story. Ah, there. The tweezer tip gripped something hard; he gave it a slight twist to free it and—pop—pulled a small bullet from the opening near her shoulder. Maxin paled at the sight; his hand wavered and the bullet slipped from his grip, falling into the sink and disappearing down the drain because it was so small.
"That's… it? Now what?" he said heavily.
"Sutures. I need stitches." With extreme hoarseness, Nox pressed both hands against the sink as her head spun.
"No, not that. We have to go to the hospital!"
The flip phone's ringtone distracted Nox; she shoved Maxin away and he hit the cold blue tile. Dizzy, she rummaged through her bag for her cell phone but couldn't find it.
"It's in your pocket," Maxin said calmly, though he looked accusatory. Nox, her reflexes already dulled, pressed the button and held the phone to her ear. She wrapped a cloth around her wound to staunch the bleeding, and Maxin's hand supported her beneath the water.
"Mariah and Bates are dead."
"Jesus Christ. Where's the kid?"
"He's here with me." Her gaze drifted to the figure beside her, gently holding her injured arm.
"Unbelievable… Nox, what the hell are you doing?! You've killed three people in a matter of hours and two accomplices on top of that! What the hell!" Viktor's voice roared through Nox's phone speaker, shaking the living room so that Deborah, dozing on the sofa, stirred. He took a deep breath, trying to calm himself. "Where are you now? I'll come to you. It's okay—I can finish the job for you."
"I'm not sure. I was shot, my senses are fading, I need stitches."
"You're losing your mind…!!" Nox hung up before Viktor's tirade could get any worse.