Page 21 of Wraith: Lethal Impact

"We're moving. Keep your head down."

We exit the vehicle, moving through the flooded alley and slipping through the rusted side door of the motel. The interior is a sensory assault—cheap incense, stale cigarette smoke, bleach. The hallway is lined with soundproofed doors, the carpet a gaudy pattern of crimson and black.

I locate room 404 at the end of the hall, slide the key into the lock, and lead her inside.

I hit the light switch.

The light is jarring—a deep, blood-red glow.

A gothic, vampiric dungeon. The walls are draped in dark velvet. Faux-wrought-iron candelabras bolted to the walls throw long, erratic shadows. The centerpiece is a circular bed dressed in black satin, surrounded by an ornate wrought-iron cage. A mirror dominates the ceiling above it.

Designed for fantasy. Designed for surrender.

It's the worst possible environment for two people fighting to maintain distance.

She stands frozen in the center of the room, taking in the velvet, the iron cage, the mirrored ceiling. The dark opulence should swallow her—white-clad innocence in a vampire's den. But the red light catches the bloodstains on her hands and the resolve in her green eyes.

She fits the darkness.

"Sit." I gesture toward the velvet chair in the corner.

I head straight for the small, mirrored bathroom, drop the scavenged weapons onto the faux-marble vanity, and turn to assess the damage to my ribs.

The bleeding has worsened. My combat shirt is soaked through. I unclip the Kevlar plate carrier and let it drop to the floor. Then I grip the hem of the shirt, haul it over my head, and toss the ruined garment into the sink.

I stand shirtless in front of the mirror, the harsh bathroom light exposing the reality of my existence.

My torso is a map of violence. Jagged scars crisscross my chest and abdomen. Bullet wounds. Shrapnel burns. Knife slashes. A record of a decade of warfare, and of the monster I've become.

The fresh two-inch laceration across my ribs bleeds dark against my scarred skin.

Movement in the mirror catches my eye.

She's standing in the bathroom doorway.

Her gaze travels across my scarred torso, tracing the jagged lines of my past instead of the fresh wound. I'm exposed. The armor is stripped away, leaving nothing but the broken, scarred man beneath.

I expect her to turn away in disgust. I expect her to see the monster.

She doesn't.

She steps into the small bathroom, invading my space. The scent of rain, sweat, and her faint perfume floods the room, overwhelming the bleach and stale smoke.

"You're bleeding." Her gaze drops from the old scars to the fresh red line across my ribs.

"It's superficial." I reach for the first aid kit strapped to my dropped rig.

"Stop." Her hand darts out, her fingers wrapping around my wrist.

The contact is electric, a jolt that travels up my arm and hits my chest like a defibrillator. I freeze.

"I can do it." Her voice is level, her hands steadier than they were an hour ago in the car.

She takes the kit, grabs a clean towel from the vanity rack, runs it under hot water, and wrings it out before stepping into my space. She's inches away. The top of her head barely reaches my collarbone.

She presses the hot towel against the laceration.

I hiss, the pain grounding me. Her face is a mask of concentration. She works the towel along the laceration in short, light strokes, lifting away the dried blood without ever dragging the cloth across the open cut—a dancer's grace applied to combat medicine.