Then—
A metallic CLANG! that rang down the hallway like a gunshot.
The pressure shifted. The creature's head whipped around.
Paolo stood several meters away, leaning to favor his injured foot, a fire extinguisher clutched in both hands.
"HEY!" His voice cracked in the silence.
With a heave, he hurled it. The extinguisher spun in the air before slamming into the side of the creature's skull.
The hollow clang echoed, metallic and sharp.
The thing hissed low, turning toward him with a bubbling snarl.
Paolo's hands were empty now. He stepped back, jaw tight, fear plain on his face.
It lunged.
He tried to sidestep, but too late—its claw ripped across his forearm. Skin tore, blood welling instantly. He cried out, the sound swallowed by the empty hall.
The impact pinned him to the wall. The creature loomed, close enough that its steaming breath grazed his cheek.
And something in Eli snapped.
His body moved before thought—pure instinct, pure desperation.
He sprinted, every jolt sending lightning through his ribs, and leapt onto the creature's back.
One arm looped under its jaw, the other clamped tight across its throat. His biceps locked, forearms digging into muscle and cartilage.
The creature let out a strangled, choking shriek, thrashing wildly. Paolo dropped to the floor, clutching his bleeding arm, scrambling back.
Eli gritted his teeth and tightened his hold.
It bucked, slamming him into the wall once, twice. Pain flared white-hot down his side.
The claws reached back, slicing across his scalp. Hot blood streaked his vision, blinding one eye.
He adjusted his grip, his forearm grinding into its windpipe. He felt every violent inhale, every convulsion of muscle as it fought to draw breath.
His knees dug into its back. His fingers locked so hard they ached, but still it writhed.
"You… won't… touch… him!" he snarled, voice shaking.
The creature's strength faltered for a fraction of a second—and Eli seized it.
With a guttural roar, he wrenched its head sideways. The resistance was monstrous—tendons stretching, vertebrae grinding.
CRRRK—SHHHK!
The sound was wet, brittle, final.
The creature's body spasmed once, then sagged in his arms.
Eli held it for a few heartbeats more, chest heaving, before letting the corpse drop to the tile.
He turned to Paolo—still seated on the floor, his face pale, his arm bleeding freely.
"You're safe," Eli rasped.
Then his legs gave out. The last thing he felt was the cold floor beneath him.
"Eli?" Paolo's voice shook.
No answer—just shallow, uneven breaths. Blood streaked Eli's temple, his hands twitching faintly before going still.
Paolo's own arm throbbed, the slash burning hot as blood dripped to his fingertips. He clamped a hand over it, teeth gritted.
He scanned the hall—empty, but the silence felt like it could break at any moment.
He crouched, sliding an arm under Eli's shoulders and trying to lift. His bad foot screamed, his wounded arm nearly gave out. Eli's weight was limp, unyielding.
"Shit—okay. We're dragging you then."
He hooked his arms under Eli's and pulled, boots squealing faintly against the tile. Each step felt like a gamble.
A door sat ajar a few meters ahead. He kicked it open with his good foot—an unused office, empty.
He dragged Eli inside, lowering him carefully to the floor. His own breath came ragged, and the room tilted slightly around him.
Their bag was in the corner where Eli had dropped it earlier. Paolo snatched it up, rifling through until he found the med supplies.
He pressed gauze hard against the gash on his arm, wrapping it tight with a strip of bandage until the bleeding slowed.
Then—Eli.
Paolo parted blood-matted hair, finding a shallow cut along his scalp. He cleaned it quickly, pressing a folded pad to stem the bleeding. His hands wouldn't stop shaking.
"Don't you dare," he muttered, voice low. "You don't get to save my ass and check out."
He sat back, one hand steady on the dressing, the other gripping the bag like a lifeline.
The hall outside was still silent, but it felt thin, fragile.
The minutes bled into an hour. Paolo kept his back to the door, one hand pressed to his bandaged arm, the other resting near the bag. Outside, nothing moved. Inside, Eli's breaths stayed shallow—until suddenly, he jolted awake.
Eli woke with a start, lungs dragging in air as though he'd been drowning. For a heartbeat, the world swam—a blur of muted light and the metallic tang of blood still clinging to his tongue. His heart was a wild animal in his chest, thrashing against the cage of his ribs, each beat hammering home the memory of teeth inches from his throat.
The room was quiet now. Too quiet.
He turned his head sharply, and there was Paolo—slumped against the wall, eyes half-lidded but breathing, the slow, even rhythm of someone who had fought too hard to stay conscious.
Eli pushed himself upright, wincing as muscles screamed in protest. "Hey," he rasped, voice roughened to sand. "You did good."
Paolo blinked at him, a ghost of a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth before exhaustion pulled him under again.
Eli's gaze drifted to Paolo's arm. The makeshift bandage was tight but messy—gauze scavenged from somewhere, tape clinging despite sweat, the edges curling where hurried fingers had tied it off. The fabric was stained through in places, the red dried to a rusted brown.
"You kept us both in one piece," Eli murmured, almost to himself.
He crouched beside Paolo and worked with care, peeling back the outer layer. The gash beneath was deep but clean, angry at the edges. He swabbed it gently, the scent of antiseptic sharp in the stale air. Paolo stirred at the contact, brow twitching, but didn't wake. Eli pressed fresh gauze into place and wound the tape tighter, making sure it would hold even if they had to run.
Only then did Eli roll up his own sleeve. The dressing there had darkened with a sticky bloom of dried blood. He peeled it away, revealing a shallow but inflamed slash. Alcohol burned along its edges, pulling a low hiss from between his teeth. He pressed fresh gauze against it until the bleed slowed, then reinforced the dressing with another strip of tape, tighter this time.
When it was done, he leaned back against the wall, eyes flicking between the boy and the closed door.
They were both still here—battered, bruised, aching—but still breathing.
For now.