Orson slid into the driver's seat, slamming the door shut with more force than necessary. His chest rose and fell in rapid succession as he gripped the steering wheel so tightly that his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded—part fury, part fear.
Beside him, Duncan let out a low, agonized groan as he shifted in his seat, trying to find a position that didn't send fresh waves of pain rippling through his battered body.
The sound made Orson's jaw clench. The discomfort in Duncan's voice, the sheer weakness in it—it was unsettling.
Orson exhaled sharply. "That's it! I'm taking you to the hospital."
Before Duncan could so much as grunt in protest, Orson stepped on the gas, the tires screeching as the car lurched forward.
Duncan turned his head weakly, his vision swimming. "Stop… stop… stop…" he rasped, his voice barely more than a whisper.
