Blazing Stitches Novels & Stories

When she hesitated, I added, "Please, Angel. I need to see for myself." She nodded slowly and lifted the sleeve for me. I gritted my teeth when I saw the line of black stitches. "The stitches will come out in a few days. It’s really not a big deal. It doesn’t even hurt anymore," she said, trying to make me feel better.

“We’ll take care of that now.” She pulls out a small kit from her bag, her movements steady and methodical. “This will sting a little,” she warns before cleaning the wounds. She wasn’t lying—it burns, and I clench my teeth to keep from crying out as she works. “Almost done,” she says, her voice soothing. Her hands move quickly as she stitches the deeper cuts on my arm and thigh, her focus unshakeable. Callum stays silent nearby, his presence strangely reassuring as he watches.

he asked. “I grab the knife” I shrugged and he let out an airy laugh in surprise before shaking his head and grabbing the suture kit and having me lean over one arm up further in the air as he got to work. He starts to stitch me up causing a burning feeling to go through my skin and me to clench my jaw before letting out a breath letting my body fully relax and go numb just like I was taught to, the feeling going away all together.

And once her nanites had sufficiently ran thousands of microstitches across each bullet hole, they cinched the threads and closed the holes tightly. Claired groaned with pain, though it came in dull waves and abated quickly. Mostly thanks to her numbed receptors. “Hold on,” said Amal. “It isn’t quite over yet. It’ll be quick though, I promise.” Amal’s nanites went into the next phase, and swarmed around where her skin and muscles were split and torn. Though she had sewn them closed, there were still open gaps where the blood could easily spill out. They covered each of these gaps with as many biocells as they had left, then each of them vibrated with supersonic speed and superheated themselv

“Just breathe. You can do it. You’re over halfway.” I nodded, unable to speak and placed the next stitch. One after another. My hands were unrecognizable, my nails black with Caraway’s blood. I ceased to think beyond the placement of the next stitch, ceased to hear the other injured and the healers who tended them around me. Caraway continued to breathe, and the wound began to close, an ugly, jagged line held together with almost invisible stitches.