Little white lie

Nico:

The room was dim except for the single swinging bulb. It gave the medic’s movements a jerky, surreal rhythm, like a film reel stuttering. He cleaned his instruments with quiet precision, packed them back into the worn leather case, and left without a word. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing the silence in with me.

I sat there, my body a knot of frayed nerves, my hand still wrapped around hers. She was warm, but not warm enough. Her breathing had steadied, but every rise and fall of her chest felt borrowed, as if she was still deciding whether to come back to me.

The walls of the safehouse pressed in close. Outside, the others were moving—boots scuffing, muted voices giving orders, Matteo checking the perimeter, Luca making calls. They were all still in motion. But I was stone.

I couldn’t look away from her. Her hair stuck to her forehead, dark with sweat. Her lips were pale, the corners cracked. Even now, with the weight of everything that had happened, she looked like sh