Matthew's POV
The guard nodded mechanically, then turned away, staggering slightly before he began to retch.
I couldn't tell if he was genuinely nauseated or simply acting on my command, but now was not the time to dwell on it.
I watched as he beckoned to another guard at the checkpoint, speaking a few words in a low voice, covering his mouth and nose as if barely containing his disgust. Shortly after, both of them walked away from the checkpoint area.
Deborah immediately signaled for us to move quickly through the final checkpoint.
This was our chance; there was no room for hesitation.
I stepped out first to ensure no one was watching the checkpoint entrance, and the others followed, each moving cautiously but swiftly across.
Our steps were light, our movements calculated, and we all held our breath, suppressing any sound that could give away our escape. Everyone was tense, acutely aware of the need for silence, fearing any slip might bring disaster.
After a few tense minutes, all seven of us successfully crossed the checkpoint.
However, Deborah's back wound was still bleeding.
Her face grew paler with each passing step, her body visibly weakening.
We pressed on, moving along a path littered with old posters and street signs. That's when we realized we had finally entered Finias.
The surroundings bore a striking resemblance to Murias, with surveillance cameras tucked into every corner of the streets.
Drawing any attention could be dangerous, so I guided everyone to blend into the bustling crowd as best we could.
Deborah's steps faltered, and her face showed clear signs of pain.
I slipped my arm around her for support, pressing my hand gently against her back wound to stem the bleeding.
I draped my jacket over her, hiding the injury from any prying eyes.
Her face rested against my chest, her gaze hazy, her steps growing heavier as the blood loss took its toll.
Navigating through the crowded streets, we eventually found our way to a desolate part of the city.
With no Mobi to rely on in Finias, we had no choice but to search for a safe place to rest on foot.
After some careful thought, I decided to take Deborah to an abandoned quarry, where she could have a moment's rest.
Mike volunteered to fetch some medical supplies.
I nodded, allowing him to go, partly to give him space away from Deborah but also to ensure the group's overall safety and avoid any unnecessary risks.
To our surprise, the abandoned quarry in Finias was almost a mirror image of Murias—identical layouts, even down to the smallest details.
The offices were layered with dust, untouched for what seemed like years. The decrepit desks and chairs added a haunting desolation to the atmosphere. For us, however, it was the best option for a temporary refuge.
Soon after, Mike returned with some medical supplies and first aid.
The others discreetly left the room, leaving only Deborah and me.
Though Mike lingered, casting a few reluctant glances her way, he eventually exited as well. He seemed to understand that Deborah's injuries were something I was better suited to handle.
Once everyone had left, I carefully lifted Deborah's shirt to examine the wound, realizing she was burning with fever, her face flushed, and she was deeply unconscious.
She could only lie on her stomach, her body occasionally trembling with the sharp pain.
The wound on her back was far worse than I'd anticipated.
Deep, jagged stones were embedded in the raw flesh, where the skin had torn and split open, leaving ragged edges and a deep, relentless bleeding. Dark fragments of debris clung stubbornly to the torn tissue, mingling with blood that had dried into a rust-colored crust.
Sighing, I opened the makeshift medical kit that Mike had managed to scrape together and took out the limited supplies within.
I poured a small amount of disinfectant onto a cotton pad, carefully pressing it against the wound and bracing myself as the liquid seeped into the torn skin.
The disinfectant hissed and bubbled, clearing away a layer of dirt and dried blood. With each touch, Deborah's face twisted in pain, even though she remained unconscious.
Her brows knitted tightly, her lips parted slightly, quivering as though caught in a silent battle against agony.
I paused, hesitating as I took in her expression, watching the lines of pain crease her forehead, her face contorted as if in a nightmare.
A sharp pang of discomfort pierced through me, and I couldn't help but grimace, feeling her suffering as though it were my own.
Steeling myself, I reached for the tweezers.
Holding them steady, I leaned in closer and began the careful, tedious work of removing each embedded stone.
With each fragment I pried loose, a fresh trickle of blood followed, bright red against her pale skin, flowing from the wound as if her body were releasing its pain with each piece that came free.
Each time I pulled another shard out, I quickly dabbed the bleeding area with gauze, hoping to minimize her discomfort, though her face still tensed with each touch.
I found myself working more slowly than usual, my fingers moving with deliberate precision. I didn't want to cause her any more pain than absolutely necessary.
Each movement felt loaded with the weight of my responsibility, and I kept my focus entirely on her wound, the rhythmic dabbing and careful probing as steady as my heartbeat.
Although she remained unconscious, I could feel her body reacting beneath my hands.
Every time I touched a particularly tender spot, her shoulders would flinch slightly, her body instinctively shuddering in response.
Watching her suffer, even without awareness, tore at me, her suffering echoing through my chest, stirring up feelings of both regret and guilt.
At one point, I glanced down at her face, struck by how much she had changed.
Her cheeks had hollowed, her skin now sallow and drawn, her lips drained of their usual warmth and color.
She looked fragile, almost like a ghost of the vibrant, determined woman I knew.
It was clear that her time on the surface had been nothing short of grueling; I could only imagine the endless trials she must have endured alone, pushing herself to survive, her magic growing stronger with each hardship.
I felt a surge of respect for her resilience, but also an overwhelming desire to shield her from any further suffering. She shouldn't have had to bear all this alone.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, I finished cleaning the wound.
With her blood and the last bits of debris cleared away, I dusted a layer of medicinal powder over the raw, exposed flesh.
The powder clung to her wound, stemming the fresh flow of blood.
Then, I took a fresh piece of gauze, wrapping it tightly and securely, ensuring it would stay in place and provide some protection against infection.
My fingers lingered on the final knot, ensuring it was neither too tight nor too loose.
The entire process took a considerable amount of time, but I remained careful and thorough, focused solely on easing her pain as best I could.
I wasn't concerned with how long it had taken—I just wanted her to feel even the smallest relief, to give her the comfort that she had been denied for too long.
Despite our reunion, every glance Deborah cast my way was quickly averted, her words restrained, her demeanor guarded, as if a wall now separated us.
I knew this distance was because of my cold reaction to her sacrifice of my mother, a bitterness that had driven a wedge between us.
That wound, I realized, had cut deeply into her heart, becoming a barrier she couldn't easily lower.
Yet, in my heart, I knew our love hadn't faded.
Each time our eyes met by accident, I saw a glimpse of her hidden feelings—a fleeting warmth, a hint of tenderness, reminding me she still cared.
Her face betrayed her efforts to hide it, as though no matter how hard she tried, a subtle vulnerability lingered, showing she hadn't truly moved on, only hidden the pain.
Silently, I made a vow to win her back.
No matter how distant or cold she acted, I refused to let go.
This bond between us was unbreakable, like a thread wound tightly around my heart, guiding me back to her, time and again.
She breathed softly, her wound carefully bandaged, her body weak but her spirit fierce.
After what seemed like hours, Deborah's eyes finally fluttered open.
Her gaze was dazed, lingering traces of exhaustion and confusion evident as she adjusted to her surroundings.
Her gaze drifted across the room before finally landing on my face.
"How are you feeling?" I asked softly, keeping my tone as gentle as possible, trying not to press on any emotions she wanted to hide.
She gave a slight nod. "Better… thank you." Her words were calm, almost as if she were masking the turmoil beneath.
But there was an undeniable sorrow in her silence.
A sharp ache rose in my chest as I instinctively reached for her shoulder, only to pause mid-motion, sensing her subtle retreat.
I let my hand drop, the small distance between us feeling like an unbridgeable chasm.
Drawing my hand back, I stepped away, giving her the space she seemed to need.
She seemed to notice my hesitation, a complex expression flickering in her eyes, her lips pressing together as if she wanted to say something but held back.
I knew she was restraining herself, unwilling to dredge up the old wounds between us, yet the glimmer of tenderness in her gaze gave her away.
In that moment, my resolve only strengthened.
"The mistakes of the past… I'll make up for them," I murmured, looking at her with an unwavering gaze, my voice barely above a whisper.
Even if she wanted to pull away, I wouldn't let her bear this alone. I understood now that our love ran deeper than any hardship. She might resist my closeness now, but I believed that, given time, my sincerity would rekindle what we once had.
Just as I was about to tell her that no matter the difficulty, I would find my way back to her…
John and the others returned.