Disclaimer: this chapter contains scenes of suffering and pain. If it's uncomfortable to read, you can skip.
Ryan was standing and panting as he threw the pistol on his bed, clenching his waist. He staggered to his wardrobe, tearing a piece of his own clothing, his movements frantic and desperate, trying to apply pressure to the deep wound in his waist. His face was contorted in pain, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
Davis, still reeling from the shock of the scene before him, finally registered the details of the room. He saw the bloody knife, its blade glistening crimson, tossed carelessly across the room. He saw the dead body, lying in a spreading pool of blood, its lifeless eyes staring up at the ceiling. He saw Ryan's pistol, lying on the bed, its polished surface reflecting the dim light.
Ryan grunted, his voice strained and desperate. "Call Abernathy," he commanded, his words punctuated by sharp intakes of breath. "Now!!!"
