"I think I understand how we got shot down," August says, his voice calm, almost detached. He keeps his balance effortlessly, his movements fluid as he carries Layla and their belongings, darting through the dense trees. The branches blur past them, leaves fluttering in the air like shattered bits of light.
Layla glances up at him, confusion creasing her brow. "What do you mean?"
August's eyes flicker toward the distant sky, his mind already working through the pieces of the puzzle. His pace doesn't falter, even as he maintains his focus on their path. "We weren't shot at by the Taliban. It wasn't them. It was the Saudi military."
Layla's heart skips a beat, her grip on his neck tightening despite herself. "The Saudi military?" she repeats, disbelieving. "But... why? We're not even anywhere near them yet."
He doesn't break his stride. "The thing is, they've got a reason to want us dead. You've been hearing the chatter on the radio, right? They don't know exactly who we are, but they know someone's out here causing trouble. And the Saudis don't like trouble at their borders, especially not from people who've pissed off the Taliban."
His voice darkens, a tension creeping in that wasn't there before. "Whoever's been hunting us is already aware we're moving, and it's not the Taliban they're worried about. It's us."
Layla's breath hitches as she processes the implications of his words. "So, they're tracking us? And they don't care who we are?"
August nods, voice steady as his thoughts crystallize. "The Saudi military's been more active than usual, especially near the border. Their jets have been flying closer to Afghanistan than they should. Whoever shot us down, they had the capability—and the motive." He grits his teeth. "They were probably tracking us ever since we left the country."
A cold silence settles between them, broken only by the faint rustling of the forest around them and the steady rhythm of August's landings. His mind stays sharp, constantly evaluating their surroundings, but something about the silence feels heavy. The tension in the air is palpable, the gravity of their situation not lost on either of them.
Layla, still trying to process the revelation, shifts her position slightly but says nothing. There's nothing to say—not now, anyway. All she can do is hold on and trust that August knows what he's doing, even if everything feels like it's slipping further out of their control.
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The city sprawls before them, a maze of lights and shadows. The contrast between the bustling metropolis and the forested landscape they've just left is stark. August pauses on the hillside, gaze fixed on the distant skyscrapers and the faint hum of civilization.
Layla stirs, her head lolling against his shoulder. "Are we... Are we there?" she asks, her words slurred with pain..
"Almost," August replies, voice steady but low. His grip on her tightens slightly, a subconscious gesture of reassurance. "Hang in there."
Layla's eyelids flutter, her breath tired. "You... you make it sound like I'm dying," she mutters, attempting a smirk that falls flat.
"Not if I can help it," he counters, tone dry but carrying a faint undercurrent of something softer—something almost protective. Without waiting for a response, he shifts her weight slightly and starts moving again, eyes fixed on the path ahead.
August enters the city from the forest, boots crunching over gravel as the dense cover of trees gives way to asphalt and concrete. The sun is beaming down mercilessly, rays lancing through gaps in the buildings and beating against his exposed skin. Almost instantly, he feels the prickle—the uncomfortable heat that makes his regeneration stir restlessly beneath the surface.
"Shit," he mutters, jaw clenching. The sunlight sears, coaxing a faint, yet familiar itch to crawl along his arms.
Layla, half-conscious from tiredness, blinks sluggishly at the sudden brightness, a weak groan escaping her. August adjusts his grip on her, eyes narrowing against the glare as he moves forward, scanning for cover.
August's gaze sweeps the street, sharp and searching. Most of the buildings are too exposed, windows shattered or walls crumbling—a sniper's paradise. But then his eyes catch on something further down the block: a condemned building, its entrance half-boarded up and a faded warning sign hanging crookedly by one nail.
"What luck." The thought comes as he huffs out a breath, more forceful than amused, and adjusts Layla's weight in his arms. "Hang on," he mutters, more to himself than to her. Her eyelids flutter, but she doesn't respond, her face still bleached with pain and exhaustion.
Crossing the cracked asphalt in quick, measured strides, August reaches the building's entrance. With one swift kick, he sends the boards splintering inward, the door yawning open with a groan of rusted hinges. The inside is dark and smells like old concrete—perfect.
He slips inside without hesitation, the shadows swallowing them both.
The darkness is a relief, the sun's assault on his exposed skin finally cut off. August exhales slowly, the reactor-like heat simmering beneath his skin calming by degrees. His vision adjusts quickly, picking out the shapes of broken furniture and scattered debris in the gloom. Dust hangs in the air, swirling lazily with every step he takes.
Layla stirs weakly in his arms, her fingers twitching against his shoulder. "Where…?" she mumbles, her voice thin and cracked.
"Somewhere they won't find us," August replies curtly. He steps over the shattered remains of a desk, boots crunching on glass fragments. "Stay awake, Layla. Just a bit longer."
He finds a room off to the side—a maintenance office, judging by the metal cabinets lining the walls. It's cramped but defensible, and the window is mostly intact, offering a narrow view of the street outside.
August lowers Layla carefully onto a dust-covered bench, mindful of her injured arm. She hisses at the jolt of pain, eyes squeezing shut. The makeshift bandages he wrapped earlier are already stained through with crimson. Not great.
"I'm fine," she breathes, though it sounds more like a whimper. Her attempt at a reassuring smile is pathetic at best.
"Yeah, sure," August deadpans. He drops the duffel bags to the floor and unzips one with practiced efficiency, pulling out a water bottle and a first-aid kit. His hands move on autopilot—untwisting the cap, pressing the bottle to Layla's lips.
She drinks greedily, water dribbling down her chin. "Thanks," she mutters, her voice a bit stronger. Her eyes flick to the darkened doorway, anxiety bleeding through her exhaustion. "You think… they'll find us?"
"Not if you keep your voice down," he replies dryly, but his tone softens a fraction at the look she gives him—wide-eyed and fearful. He sighs. "We're fine for now. Rest."
Layla nods, her eyes already half-closed, lashes fluttering. August turns his focus to her wound, peeling back the blood-soaked fabric with grim precision. His jaw tightens at the sight—angry, jagged flesh glistening dark and wet.
He glances at the door, then back at Layla. They've got maybe an hour if they're lucky, less if the Saudis are already sweeping the area. "Better make this quick."
August shrugs off his hesitation. He pulls his ruined turtleneck over his head, wincing as the fabric brushes against his skin. The sunlight's earlier exposure left a faint pink flush on his shoulders, the first hint of his regeneration's instability.
A crawling sensation prickles along August's skin, an itch deep beneath the surface. He feels it start—cells dividing too quickly, skin flaking in thin, translucent sheets. His regeneration, usually a quiet hum in the background of his body, now roars like a wildfire. His skin sloughs off in patches, leaving raw, pink flesh exposed to the dusty air.
"Shit." He mutters the curse under his breath, hands trembling slightly as he fumbles with the gauze. His healing is spinning out of control, the sunlight from earlier now manifesting as a punishment. He takes a deep breath, willing the churning in his cells to slow down, to stabilize.
His metabolism was running on fumes—nothing in him but air and water keeping things moving. The sunlight had jolted him awake again, feeding him a pulse of energy he hadn't felt in hours, but it, as he knew for the past ten years, came with a cost. His skin couldn't keep up.
The top layer began to peel where the light had hit hardest, dry flakes giving way to tender, pink skin beneath. It stung sharply, like the aftermath of a deep burn, but beneath the pain was something else—a low thrum of strength coming back to life.
Layla stirs, her eyes fluttering open, still glassy with pain. "You… okay?" she mumbles, the question barely scraping past her chapped lips.
"Yeah." His voice comes out strained, rough around the edges. He presses a strip of gauze to her wound, the pressure firm but not unkind. "Just focus on breathing. Let me worry about the rest."
His skin continues to shed, flakes of dead cells turning to dust as they hit the floor. He feels the heat radiating off himself, a low-grade fever brewing beneath his skin. His hands move mechanically, binding Layla's arm with fresh bandages, but his mind is half-turned inward, grappling with the balance between his own body's betrayal and the need to keep her alive.
August grits his teeth, forcing his hands to stay steady despite the searing itch spreading across his own skin. He presses a clean strip of gauze to Layla's wound, ignoring the sting of her hissed breath. Blood seeps through almost immediately, dark and sluggish, but he doesn't falter.
"Hold still," he mutters, voice rough but not unkind. His fingers work quickly, winding the bandage around her arm with a precision that borders on surgical. Each pull is firm, tight enough to stem the bleeding but not so much that it cuts off circulation.
Layla's breathing comes in shallow pants, her eyes glassy with pain and exhaustion. She tries for a smile—weak, barely there. "You… really suck at this gentle thing."
"Shut up," August grumbles, but there's no real bite to it. He secures the bandage with a final tug, checking for any signs of continued bleeding. Satisfied, he sits back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing a fraction.
Layla slumps against the wall, her eyelids fluttering. "Thanks," she mumbles, voice small and thready.
August only grunts in response, his own skin still flaking in thin, translucent patches that shrivel to dust before they even touch the ground. He exhales sharply. "Just rest," he says. "We'll move once you can stand without falling over."
She doesn't argue, her eyes already slipping closed, leaving him alone with the dim light and the crawling fire beneath his own skin.
August exhales sharply, the sound edged with impatience, and moves to sit on the cracked tile floor. His back presses against the wall, cool and rough through the thin fabric of his undershirt. He tilts his head back, eyes fixed on the peeling ceiling, and forces himself to breathe evenly despite the crawling itch consuming his skin.
Thin, translucent patches flake away, shriveling to dust almost instantly. It's like a slow-motion burn, the layers peeling and renewing beneath the harsh sunlight's lingering bite. He grits his teeth, fingers flexing against his knees, and waits for it to pass. There's nothing to do but endure it.
Layla is slumped nearby, her breathing soft but steady. The bandage on her arm is already darkening, but at least it's holding for now. August's eyes flicker to her, lingering for a moment, before he looks away—back to the ceiling, the empty shadows creeping in from the shattered windows.