Siddharth gritted his teeth, his left hand white-knuckled on the steering wheel while his right pressed a wad of bloodied fabric against his arm. The wound burned with every micro-adjustment of the car, the bullet having grazed him just deep enough to sting like a brand. By the time he reached the apartment, the adrenaline had begun to leak out of him, replaced by a cold, throbbing ache that made his vision swim.

Tejas was already pacing the living room, barefoot and frantic. He was clutching a first-aid kit like a panicked intern on his first day of trauma duty.