As they drove, Dark struggled for breath, his heart pounding in his ears.

    Wilford's body slumped against him, his hand now loose over Dark's side. His head started to dip, and with an exhale, Dark brought up his other hand and carded his fingers through Wilford's hair, keeping his head up.

    Tingles ran through him at the gesture.

    He gazed down at the mafia boss through bleary eyes, fingers mindlessly feeling the soft locks of his pink hair. He realized then that this was the closest they've been; bodies pressed close, breaths shared, blood, Dark's blood, on their hands.

    From the passenger seat, Host spoke on the phone to Schneepelstein, but Dark was too out of it to hear what he was saying. He saw his lips moving through the darkness—the urgency in his gestures—but all that came out was muffled noise like he was underwater.

    The car lurched, and Dark grimaced, clutching his bullet wound. A warehouse came into view, Jim blared the horn, and then the garage lifted up, spilling light onto the pavement. A man with white hair walked out, confused, and Jim and Host jumped out of the car.

    "Xilef!" Dark heard Jim saying, his voice swimming in his head. "Wil's unconscious. And Dark—"

    Xilef circled around the vehicle and opened the car door, gazing down at Dark and Wil. His brows furrowed, and urgency stole his figure.

    "Help me get them out," he said, waving Jim to his side. From afar, Host paced as he yelled into the phone. "Get Warfstache first."

    Jim reached in and grabbed Wilford, grunting with the effort. Xilef helped Jim, and once they dragged Wil out of the car, Xilef hoisted the mob boss into his arms with a curse. Wilford's head lolled to the side, his body limp.

    "You," said Xilef, staring Dark in the eyes. "Can you get up?"

    Dark couldn't hear him—could only see his lips moving—and Jim leaned over, looping his arm under Dark's to give him support. Dark heaved with the effort, clutching his side tight as he stumbled out of the car.

    Jim shut the door with his foot, and once all of them headed into the warehouse, Xilef shut the garage door and blocked the rest of the world away.

———

The warehouse was large, filled with cars and tools and mechanical lifts.

    Xilef led them through the vehicles and into a cramped office. Dark left a trail of blood as he limped alongside Jim, and Host clicked off his phone, looking around the space.

    "Host," said Xilef, "look under my desk. I have a cot."

    Host grabbed the cot from the desk and unfolded it, placing it where there was room. Xilef carefully set Wilford's body down on the makeshift bed with a huff, and when he stood, he pointed at Dark.

    "You. On the desk," said Xilef. "It's the next-closest thing I have to a bed."

    Jim helped Dark over, and the businessman hoisted himself onto the desk with a wince, smearing blood on papers and pens. He was too in pain to notice, let alone apologize, and he laid down on the desk with a grimace, clutching his wound tight. The lights above were bright, sterile, and he screwed his eyes shut, trying to block everything out: the pain, the blood, the attack. Gunshots still echoed in his head, and the pain in his side doubled.

    Weight hung heavy over the room, and Xilef turned to Host with an exhale.

    "Who's that?" he said under his breath, motioning towards Dark.

    Host sighed. Jim grabbed a chair and pulled it up to Wilford's cot, gazing at him.

    "Dark Edwards," said Host. "Billionaire. It's a long story."

    Xilef rose a brow, crossing his arms as he leaned against the wall. "I have all night," he said. "Is he the reason for all of this?"

    Host fell quiet, copper eye sliding onto Dark's figure. He had a hand over his face, which had grown pale, the other clutching his side so tightly his knuckles were white. Blood coated his fingers, looking stark under the cramped lights.

    Host sighed. "We were ambushed," he said, hands in his pockets. "They not only wanted him, but Wilford, as well."

    Xilef's brows furrowed, his body bristling. "They're asking for war."

    "I know," said Host, his voice low. "The woman behind it wants that to happen." He gazed at Xilef, meeting his sharp blue eyes.

    "Celine Larose," said Host, "will stop at nothing to get what she wants."

———

Tension twisted in the dark room, threatening to snap at any moment.

    Celine sat at her desk, nails drumming angrily against the wood. Before her stood Blank, his body and expressions unmoving.

    "You let them," breathed Celine, "get away."

    Blank said nothing.

    "You were supposed to lead," said Celine, teeth gnashing. "You were supposed to make sure the girls caught them."

    Blank downcast his eyes, a sliver of moonlight catching his lashes.

    "Give me one good reason," said Celine, sliding open a drawer at her desk, "why I shouldn't kill you right now."

    The drawer caught, and Celine grabbed the handgun inside, standing. She held the weapon in her grip, tested the weight of the deadly metal, and pointed it at Blank, finger twitching over the trigger.

    "Give me one good reason, Blank," she hissed, thumb ghosting over the safety. "One good reason!"

    She clicked the safety off, and Blank's eyes flicked up, coiling the cold in the air. The two of them stood there, still, trapped beneath tension.

    Blank took a deep breath, and after a long, grueling moment, he said softly, "Agent Nelson."

    Celine's eyes narrowed, and she glared at Blank's face through the sights. He practically blended into the shadows, his suit swamping him in darkness. The only clear view was the paleness of his face and the black of his eyes.

    "Go on..." said Celine carefully, unwavering.

    Blank tipped his head up, eyes searching Celine's face.

    "She has contact," he said, "with the person motivating Edwards' case."

    Celine's brows slowly rose, and as they did, her gun lowered a fraction. She remembered now—telling Blank about their encounter with the FBI before they had gone through with the ambush. How they needed to go quicker, just in case Detective Abe decided to scope out the location Celine had given them right away.

    And then Agent Nelson... who let it slip to Celine that there was someone who cared enough about rotten, horrid Dark Edwards to keep the case strong.

    Elation rose beneath her skin, and she lowered the gun, setting it carefully on the desk. A new plan began to spin its web in the back of her head, and she nodded to herself, quiet.

    "Blank," she said softly, sinking back into her chair. "Go to Edwards & Co. and find out who's closest to him." Her eyes glinted, and she laced her fingers together, steepling them under her chin. "I'd start with the secretary."

    Blank lingered, then nodded, taking a step towards the door.

    "And," said Celine, stopping him. "Once you find this person, report back to me." She carefully rose a brow at him, her figure menacing in the darkness. "They're going to be the perfect bait to get Dark Edwards out of hiding."

    Blank's eyes gleamed, and he nodded, stepping out of the room without another word.

———

Xilef opened the warehouse door, and Schneepelstein raced inside, lab coat flying as he clutched his satchel.

    "Vhere is he?" said Schneep, whirling around. "Vhere is ze patient?"

    Xilef grabbed Schneep by the arm and dragged him across the warehouse. The doctor yelped with protest at first, but once he saw Host standing by the office door ahead, he lit up.

    "Mr. Host!" said Schneepelstein. "How bad is ze situation? You make it sound like zhey are dying!"

    Host ushered Schneep into the cramped office, and the doctor looked around, finding Dark curled up in pain on the desk and Wilford unconscious on the cot nearby. He raced towards Wil and knelt, pressing his fingers into his neck. A pulse met his touch, slow but steady, and he huffed with relief.

    "Daylights!" heaved Schneepelstein. "I thought he was dead."

    Xilef stepped into the office, and Host shut the door, glaring down at Schneep. Jim had moved out of the way when the doctor raced in, worrying around in the corner.

    With all of them in the office, shoved into that small space, it grew cramped quickly. Schneepelstein brushed past shoulders and bodies as he stumbled over to Dark.

    "Give me more information, more details," said Schneep, setting his satchel on a nearby chair. He opened it and tore through the contents, fishing out first aid and the like. He pulled on latex gloves.

    "Wilford was hit with a dart," said Host, shoulder brushing against Xilef's. "Dark's been shot."

    "Good lord..." said Schneep under his breath, setting his medical items on the corner of the desk. He leaned over Dark and pat the side of his face, trying to get a good look at his eyes.

    "You," said the doctor. "You, you. Can you hear me?"

    Dark blearily opened his eyes, and he found a face up in his, all blue eyes and bright green hair. He startled, confused to who this man was, but was quickly reminded of his wound when pain shot up his side. He bared his teeth with a grimace.

    "Okay," said Schneep. "He's gone under shock." He mumbled to himself as he rummaged in his satchel, fishing out scissors. The blades glinted under the steril lights.

    "Mr. Edwards," said Schneep loudly. "I'm going to have to remove your shirt. I need to access the bullet vound, okay?"

    Dark's brows furrowed, the doctor's voice swimming in his head, and when he caught sight of the scissors, his heart gave a worried drag. His breaths quickened.

    "God," said Xilef under his breath, leaning against the door. "This is a mess."

    Host scoffed in agreement. From the corner, Jim rubbed his hands together, rocking on his feet.

    "Um—if you need any help—"

    "Yes!" said Schneep, throwing his scissors about. "Keep Mr. Edwards calm, please."

    Jim nodded, and he clumsily brushed past Xilef and Host, standing on the other side of the desk. He wavered before looking Dark in the eyes, giving him a sheepish smile and a thumbs up.

    "It's okay," he was saying, trying to be clear with his words. "Dr. Schneepelstein is here to help you."

    Xilef rolled his eyes and opened the door. "I'm leaving," he said, glancing at Host. "Want to catch a smoke?"

    Host lingered a moment, gazing down at Wilford's body on the cot. He studied the rise and fall of his chest, the stir of his body and the furrow of his brows, and once he deemed the mob boss alright enough, he nodded gently.

    "Sure," he said. "Might as well give the doctor space to work."

———

Once Dark's bloody shirt was pushed aside, leaving his torso bare, Schneepelstein examined the wound.

    "Zis is more than a graze," he said. "Ze bullet tore through." He sucked in a breath through his teeth and grimaced. "I didn't bring any numbing agent. He needs stitches."

    Jim's eyes flew open. "But—"

    "Mr. Jim," said Schneep, eyes flicking onto him. "Keep. Mr. Edwards. Calm. Can you do zat for me?"

    Jim stumbled for words, and Schneep continued working, cleaning up the wound. Blood soaked cotton, his gloves, his tools. He opened the first aid kit, rummaged through it, and pulled out needles, suture, and tweezers.

    Jim's face paled at the items. "Doctor—" he floundered. "Shouldn't he be asleep instead or something—"

    "I came as quickly as I could," said Schneep. "Means I don't have everything, Jim."

    He grabbed his satchel and threw it at Jim, who caught it with a shout.

    "Find ze bite stick," he said. "It's white. Rubber."

    "Ohmygod..." muttered Jim as he searched through the bag, plastic rustling and metal tools rattling. He grabbed a white stick of rubber—something like a mouthguard—and held it up to the light. "This?"

    Schneep readied the needle.

"Yes," he said. "Put it in his mouth."

    Jim huffed, and he stood by Dark's head, gazing down at him. The businessman blearily met his eyes, and Jim pointed at the bite stick and made a motion for Dark to open his mouth.

    Dark hesitated, brows furrowing, and when he glanced down at what Schneep was preparing, his face fell. With a shaky huff, he clenched his fists and unwillingly opened his mouth.

    Jim placed the bite stick in, and Dark bit down, teeth testing the hard-rubber. Feet away, Wilford stirred on the cot.

    "Alright, Mr. Edwards," said Schneep. "I'm going to stitch up your vound. Okay? Bear with me, okay?"

    Dark barely heard him, but through the fog in his brain, he could piece together some words. He shut his eyes, took a deep breath in pain, and nodded.

    Schneepelstein set a hand over Dark's stomach, positioned the needle in the right place, and pierced it through.

———

Wilford woke up.

    The world spun around him, even with his eyes closed, and he groaned, fumbling to clutch his head. Even his fingers felt numb, and his face felt faraway... and the noise.

    His brows furrowed, everything in him like sludge. Heavy sludge.

What was that noise?

    Shuffling. High tones... or, voices?

    "Dark..." swirled the words in his head. "Just... little longer..."

    Then the cries of agony.

    On the desk, Dark bit down hard on the rubber, brows curled up in pain. Sweat beaded on his bloodied forehead, on his chest that heaved up and down. Jim bit his nails as Schneepelstein made stitch after stitch, his hands steady. But Dark was squirming, trying to pull away from the pain on instinct, which was making it worse.

    "Mr. Edwards," said Schneepelstein firmly. "Listen to me. Listen to my voice. You need to stay still."

    The words swirled around Dark's head. He could hear them now, but the pain blinded him, made the words useless. He continued to struggle and tremble, heaving through the bite stick.

    A thud crashed feet away.

    Jim jumped, and he whirled around, finding Wilford on the floor. His brows rose.

    "Boss!" he yelped, rushing to his knees beside him. "Boss, are you okay?"

    Schneepelstein tried to keep Dark down as he shoved in another stitch. Dark's cries filled the room.

    Wilford's brows furrowed, and he blearily opened his eyes, squinting. The bright light stabbed his eyes, and he buried his face in the floor.

    "Wha..." he slurred, voice unsteady. "Wha's... goin-on..."

    Jim cursed, and he hooked his arms under Wil's armpits, hoisting him up. He struggled, Wil's body heavy as dead weight, but the mob boss didn't let him drop him onto the cot. Instead, he stumbled to the side, crashing back down to the floor.

    Schneep cursed. "I'm glad to know Mr. Varfstache is alright," he said, "but he's making my job much harder, Jim!"

    "I'm sorry, sorry!" Jim yelped, hands fumbling over Wil's body. "I'll get him back to—"

    "I can't do zis on my own," said Schneepelstein. "Pin Mr. Edwards down. He keeps moving."

    "Um—h-how or—where—"

    "Hips, chest," said Schneep. "Use your arms, whole body if you need to."

    Jim stepped over Wilford's body and stood over Dark, uncertain. He barred an arm across the businessman's hips, then over his chest, keeping him still. Schneepelstein's needle pricked Dark again, and he still struggled, but this time, it was enough for the doctor to continue.

    "Good," said Schneep. "Keep ze pressure."

    Another stitch in, and Dark clutched the sides of the desk, knuckles going white. He threw his head back and shut his eyes tight, crying out at the pain.

    From the floor, Wilford struggled to his feet. The world tipped, and he fell to the side, colliding into the wall. He slid down.

    "Boss!" yelled Jim. "Please stop moving!"

    Wilford waved a hand, trying to swat away the split images swimming before his eyes. Everything echoed around him, the noise doubling, tripling, and when he tried to stand again, he collided into another wall.

    "I cannot afford to mess zis up," said Schneep, glaring at the stitches. "An infection is much vorse, Mr. Jim."

    Wilford clutched the wall, and he stumbled over to the desk, trying to keep his eyes open. Everything in him felt like lead, dragging everything in him down, down, down.

    The world tipped again, and Wilford stumbled, but this time, he didn't fall. He planted a hand on the desk, right by Dark's head, and gazed down at him, the image of him splitting.

    "Ohhh shit," slurred Wil. Jim's head whipped towards him, eyes wild.

    "BOSS!" he barked. "Please!"

    Wilford blinked away dizziness and steadied himself, focusing on Dark and the way he flinched from the pain. Carefully, he brought a hand to Dark's head, thumb sliding over his brow with a surprising fondness. Dark's eyes fluttered open, and he gazed at Wil through the corner of his eye, heaving for breath.

    Wilford didn't know if it was the drug still in his system, or the fact he never imagined seeing Dark like this ever in his life, but something in him twinged, something like worry or a need to protect him.

    "Y'know..." slurred Wilford, his tongue heavy. He was going to say something more serious, but he felt the need to remove the emotion in his chest. "This is... the first time I've ever seen you shirtless, Dark."

    Dark sent him a wild look, teeth bared over the bite stick. Schneep stabbed in another stitch, and when Dark cried out, turning his head away, Wilford winced.

    "Sorry..." he mumbled.

    "Boss," said Jim. "I think it'd be best if you sit back. Please."

    "No, no," said Wilford, carding his fingers through Dark's black hair. "I'll... stay here. Right here."

    Jim pursed his lips, about to make another remark, but Schneep spoke first.

    "Keep doing zat," said the doctor. "Whatever you're doing, Varfstache, it's calming him."

    Wilford's brows rose a fraction, and he gave a lopsided smile. "Really, now?" His eyes went half-lidded. "Well, I'd... say this is endearing," he slurred, gazing down at Dark. The businessman locked eyes with him, grew flustered, and turned his head away. The gesture only made Wilford's smile grow.

    "It'll be okay, Dark," slurred Wilford, hand running through his hair. "Jus' hold on for a little longer."

...

Thank you so much for reading, and have a wonderful day/night!

Love, Vic xoxo