Stiles made it back into the safe house through the rear alley entrance, avoiding the lingering eyes of the men stationed near the main perimeter. Every step was an exercise in pure agony. The plastic market bag in her uninjured hand felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, filled with basic toiletries, sterile gauze, and medical supplies she had desperately scraped together.
As she slipped through the quiet hallway, Ethan appeared from the main room. His face was etched with deep worry, his eyes instantly tracking the blood seeping through Stiles's jacket.
"Stiles, you're bleeding through your shirt," Ethan said, stepping forward anxiously. "Let me help you with that. Is there anything I can do?"
Stiles tightened her jaw, keeping her voice as flat and masculine as possible despite the waves of pain crashing over her. "No. I've got it. Just stay alert and keep watch on the perimeter."
"But—"
"I said I'm fine, Ethan," Stiles interrupted firmly, offering a tight, reassuring nod. "Leave the room to me."
Recognizing the finality in her tone, Ethan reluctantly stepped back. He closed the bedroom door silently behind him, leaving Stiles alone in the dim, unfamiliar room.
The moment the latch clicked, the stoic agent vanished. Stiles let out a ragged, shaking breath and collapsed against the edge of the dresser, gripping the wood until her knuckles turned white.
Carefully, she peeled off her blood-soaked jacket and shirt. Underneath, her chest binder was tight, compressing her ribs and making the fiery ache in her shoulder even more suffocating. She couldn't remove the binder fully with Ethan just on the other side of the door, but she loosened it just enough to breathe, staring into the cracked mirror on the wall to assess the damage.
The bullet had torn through the flesh of her anterior shoulder—a nasty, jagged graze that was deep enough to bleed heavily but luckily hadn't shattered the bone or lodged inside.
Taking a deep breath, Stiles opened the first-aid supplies she had bought. She lined them up on the dresser with practiced, military precision:
A bottle of hydrogen peroxide and saline solution to flush the wound. Sterile cotton swabs and antiseptic wipes. A tube of topical antibiotic ointment to prevent infection in the humid climate. Non-stick sterile gauze pads and a roll of heavy-duty elastic adhesive bandages.
Using her reflection to guide her shaking hands, she poured the saline over the wound first. The burn was immediate and blinding. She bit down hard on a clean piece of cloth to muffle a scream, tears pricking the corners of her eyes as she thoroughly cleansed the dirt and clothing fibers from the torn flesh.
Once the wound was clean, she applied a thick layer of antibiotic ointment to the gauze pads. Pressing the pads firmly against her shoulder with her right hand, she used her teeth and her functional left arm to tightly wrap the elastic bandage around her shoulder and across her chest, securing the dressing firmly in place. Finally, she readjusted and tightened her binder, masking her anatomy once more. To anyone else, she was Stiles again.
Exhausted and slick with cold sweat, she stepped into the adjoining bathroom and turned on the shower. The warm water washed away the grime, dried blood, and absolute terror of the last few hours.
For a brief, fleeting moment, a profound sense of safety settled over the house. The water was warm, the room was quiet, and the immediate threat felt miles away. They were calm. They had survived the airport, they had survived the church, and they were finally under a roof.
But in their world, peace was always an illusion.