Liska stumbled, the slick mud of the tunnel floor sucking at her boots as she hauled Daris’s inert weight. The sniper’s shot had punched clean through him, a ragged exit wound blooming crimson on his back. He was a dead weight, but his eyes, though glazed with pain, still burned into hers. The tracker dogs were close, their barks echoing through the narrow confines, a promise of swift, brutal capture. “Just… hold on,” she gritted out, her own breath rasping, the lingering scent of ozone and spilled blood thick in the air. Her muscles screamed, but she dragged him deeper, away from the opening. The tunnel narrowed, twisting into what felt like a natural fissure. A faint, earthy smell, not of sewage but of damp soil and stored root vegetables, filled the space. She recognized it. A smuggler’s emergency bolt-hole, known only to a precious few. A heavy, reinforced wooden door, barely visible in the gloom, appeared on her left. She fumbled for the latch, cursing the stiff metal, and finally wrenched it open. A waft of cool, stagnant air hit her. With a final, desperate heave, she pulled Daris through, the door thudding shut behind them with a decisive clang that muted the pursuing barks. They were in a small, circular dug-out, carved crudely into the earth. Shelves lined with dusty jars of pickles and dried herbs surrounded a single, rickety stool. A faint light filtered in from a grate high above, just enough to reveal the horror of Daris’s wound. Blood soaked through his coat, a dark stain spreading fast. His face was pale, his lips tinged blue. “The hell with questions later,” Liska muttered, dropping to her knees. Her hands were already tearing at the fabric of his coat, peeling it back. The wound pulsed sluggishly, a gaping maw in his abdomen. It needed stitching, and fast. Her courier bag, still clutched in her hand, contained her emergency medical kit, a small, practical pouch of sterilised needles, gut-string thread, and antiseptic. She ripped off her own coat, discarding it in a heap. The cold air raised gooseflesh on her arms, but her focus was entirely on Daris. As she bent over him, her shirt rode up, exposing the expanse of her back to the dim light. A network of thin, silvery lines crisscrossed her skin, mapping out old traumas. Scars from the interrogation rooms of Gresnia’s capital, from whip lashes and hot irons, from times she’d refused to break, refused to name names. Each mark charted an interrogation room in the capital, stubborn silence paid for in skin. Daris, barely conscious, his eyes half-lidded, saw them. His breath caught, a shallow, rattling gasp. The pragmatic mask he wore, the cold detachment of the Brass King, splintered. A flicker of something raw, something akin to stark, protective fury, ignited in the depths of his gaze. He reached out a trembling hand, not to her wound, but to the faint, raised ridge just beneath her left shoulder blade. His thumb brushed over the scarred tissue, setting the raw nerves beneath humming. “This…” he rasped, his voice rough with something she couldn’t quite decipher. “This is what you do for us?” Liska flinched, pulling away instinctively. “It’s nothing,” she lied, her voice tight, already threading the needle. “Just old training injuries. Keep still.” He didn’t push it. Instead, he watched her, a new, unnerving intensity in his eyes. The pain, the questions, the looming threat of death – it all faded into the background. All that remained was a profound, aching warmth that settled over him, something he hadn’t known he was missing until he saw the map of her quiet endurance etched onto her skin. She worked with practiced speed, cleaning the wound, her hands steady despite the tremor in her heart. Each stitch was precise, pulling the torn flesh together, sealing the breach. Daris winced, but made no sound, his gaze never leaving her face. The intimacy of the needle pulling gut-string taut settled between them, dense as damp lime. A sudden, violent crash above them made them both jump. Dust rained down from the ceiling. The heavy clang of the hatch being unbarred echoed, followed by the distinctive *ker-chunk* of twin hammers drawing back. Liska instinctively shoved Daris further behind the shelving, her hand flying to the small revolver at her hip, even as her mind raced, trying to identify the sound. The door burst open, revealing Yefim. He stood framed against the dull glow of the outside world, his face pale and grim, the twin blackened barrels of his side-by-side leveled directly at Liska’s chest. His usual terror of poultry was replaced by a cold, unsettling resolve. “Brass King,” Yefim said, his voice unusually strained, “I ain’t got no choice. This woman… she compromised everything. She brought the entire damned State down on our heads. I gotta clean this mess up.” His eyes flicked to Daris, then back to Liska, unwavering. “I’m sorry, boss. But the syndicate comes first.” Liska felt a chill that had nothing to do with the bunker's damp air. Yefim, loyal to a fault, would follow through. She braced herself, her finger tightening on her own trigger. “Put the weapon down, Yefim,” Daris rasped, his voice surprisingly strong despite the fresh stitches. He pushed himself up, leaning heavily against a shelf, his eyes burning with an uncharacteristic, volatile fury. The protective warmth Liska had glimpsed before had coalesced into something fierce and absolute. “I said, *put it down.*” Yefim hesitated, his gaze darting between Daris’s blazing eyes and Liska’s defiant stance. His grip on the twin barrels faltered, a bead of sweat tracing a path down his temple. “But boss… the risk. The whole operation, it’s… She’s a courier for the ‘Strikers,’ ain’t she? They’re targeting your routes! She blew the train, she revealed everything! The Inquisitor is already—” “I don’t care,” Daris cut him off, his voice a low growl that vibrated with deadly intent. “She’s my wife. And you will not touch her. Is that clear, cousin?” The silence that followed hardened between them, rigid and fragile as cold iron. Yefim’s face contorted, a mix of shock and reluctant obedience. Slowly, agonizingly, he lowered the shotgun, resting its butt on the earthen floor. He looked at Daris, a profound sadness in his eyes. “Clear, boss,” Yefim said, his voice flat. He shifted his weight, his gaze falling to his boots. “But you need to know what the Inquisitor found. In her courier bag, at the train wreckage. He found Matron Ruzha. Dragged her to the square. He’s going to make her talk about your marriage. He thinks it’s all a lie.”

Scars and Shotguns