Enzo's POV
Hours blurred together in a haze of sweat, blood, and trembling adrenaline. My hands moved on instinct, guided by years of medical training and raw desperation. The sterile skills I learned in brightly lit classrooms had never felt so fragile, so human, as they did here kneeling on the cold bedroom floor, surrounded by the heavy scent of iron and the rhythmic, labored breath of a man who hadn't opened his eyes since he passed out on me.
Alaric still hadn't regained consciousness. His face was pale, clammy, smeared with blood, and his body unnaturally limp in my arms. I had done everything I could. I stopped the bleeding, cleaned the wound as best I could without proper tools, and stitched him up in silence, praying under my breath the whole time. My hands shook not from fear, but from the sheer physical toll. My muscles ached, but I couldn't afford to stop.
