Minutes crawl by, punctuated only by the faint sound of the city outside and the brittle whisper of his own skin disintegrating. Eventually, the burning starts to dull, the rapid cell growth slowing as his body stabilizes.
August moves to his duffel bags, searching for the other first aid kit. He retrieves it and searches its contents. It's running thin—no painkillers strong enough to keep Layla under for tending to her injury. His jaw tightens, thinking of alternative options.
"Chloroform. Should be enough to keep her under." His eyes narrow, shifting to the darkened hall leading deeper into the building. Condemned buildings weren't stripped of everything—sometimes old supply closets were left forgotten, full of half-empty bottles of cleaning agents and industrial solvents.
He moves quickly, knife in hand, stepping over broken glass and splintered wood. The first few rooms are empty—dust-choked offices with overturned chairs and shattered monitors. But then he finds it: a janitor's closet, door half-off its hinges. Inside, shelves sag under the weight of rusted metal cans and plastic bottles coated in grime.
His gaze flicks over the labels—bleach, acetone, isopropyl alcohol. Luck, for once. August grabs what he needs, carrying the bottles back with a grim sort of efficiency.
He works quickly, each movement precise and controlled. He sits cross-legged on the cracked floor, the supplies spread out before him—bleach, acetone, a small glass bottle, and strips of clean cloth torn from the inside of his turtleneck.
He uncaps the bottle of bleach first, the harsh, chlorine scent stinging his nose. His eyes narrow as he pours a small amount into the glass bottle, careful not to spill. The bleach sloshes thickly, settling at the bottom with a faint swirl. Next, he grabs the acetone—a rusted metal can with faded labels, the kind janitors might have used to strip floors or clean graffiti. The liquid inside is clear, almost like water, but the sharp, chemical odor gives it away. He pours a measured amount into the bleach, watching as the two mix.
August then takes the bottle of isopropyl alcohol, nearly empty but enough for what he needs. He poured a thin stream into the mixture. The glass warmed in his hand, the air sharpening with the smell of chemicals.
He swirls the bottle gently, preventing the gases from dissipating too quickly. The key is maintaining the balance—too much bleach and the mixture becomes useless; too much acetone and it risks combusting. But he's done this before, back when he had to improvise medical supplies and sedatives on the fly. The acrid fumes claw at his throat, but he barely flinches.
He snatches a strip of cloth, dipping it into the mixture. The fabric soaks through quickly, darkening with the chemical solution. Working fast, he wrings out the excess, careful not to get any on his bare skin. The fumes are potent enough that his vision blurs at the edges, but it's nothing his metabolism can't handle.
August moves with a clinical precision, his expression carved from stone. He lays Layla on the floor, maneuvering her head so that it's resting on one of the duffel bags. Her breathing is shallow but steady, each rise and fall of her chest a small reassurance.
He pulls out a needle, surgical thread, and a lighter from the first aid kit nearby. The wound in her arm is ugly, edges ragged and dark with dried blood, some small bits of shrapnel glinting faintly under the dim light. August's jaw tightens. He's seen worse, but not on her.
Grabbing a strip of cloth, he douses it with alcohol and swipes it over the needle, the sharp tang biting at his nose. Then he flicks open the lighter and passes the needle through the flame, the metal glowing faintly before cooling. He repeats the process for the surgical thread, fingers steady.
"Layla," he says, voice low but firm. Her eyes crack open, unfocused and rimmed with exhaustion. "This is going to hurt. A lot."
She manages a weak, breathless chuckle. "When...doesn't it?"
He snorts, despite himself. "Fair point."
With one hand bracing her shoulder, he takes the alcohol bottle and pours it directly over the wound. Layla jerks, a strangled gasp tearing from her throat as the liquid hisses against raw flesh, washing away blood and grit. Her fingers scrabble weakly at the ground, pain seizing her limbs.
"Breathe," August mutters, his tone almost gentle. "In and out."
She sucks in a shaky breath, teeth gritted, but doesn't scream. Pride, or sheer stubbornness—maybe both. August waits a moment, then pulls a clean strip of cloth from the bag, pressing it firmly to the wound to staunch the bleeding. Red blossoms across the white fabric almost instantly, warm and slick against his palms.
Satisfied that she's not bleeding out too quickly, he moves to grab the recently made anesthetic, the makeshift chloroform solution is far from ideal, but it will serve August and Layla well.
He takes the rag from earlier, still soaked with the chloroform solution. He wrings out the excess and presses it over her nose and mouth, fingers gentle but firm.
"Just breathe," he mutters, watching her eyelids flutter. The tension in her body ebbs gradually, limbs going slack as the chloroform takes effect. Her eyes slide shut, chest rising and falling in a slow, even rhythm. He waits a beat longer—just to be sure—then tosses the cloth aside and exhales sharply.
With Layla unconscious, August pulls the bloodied cloth from her arm and braces his knee against her shoulder to keep her still. The shrapnel glints under the light, jagged edges buried deep in muscle. His own skin itches fiercely as it knits itself back together, but he grits his teeth and ignores it.
Grabbing a pair of tweezers from the duffel, he steadies his hand and digs into the wound. The metal meets resistance almost instantly, scraping bone, but he twists carefully, extracting the first shard with a wet, nauseating squelch. He drops it onto the floor, a dark smear following. Then another. And another, each sliver slick with blood.
The pile grows slowly, and by the time the last piece clatters to the ground, his hands are painted red and his pulse is a steady roar in his ears.
August doesn't waste time—he threads the needle with fluid efficiency, tying off a knot at the end. The first stitch pierces flesh with a sickening give, but he pulls it tight, focusing on keeping each loop even. In, out, pull—over and over, until the gash is nothing but a neat line of black thread and stained skin.
He finishes with a final knot, snips the excess, and leans back, exhaling slow and controlled. Blood still seeps sluggishly, but nowhere near as badly. That's good.
For a moment, he just sits there, hands braced on his knees, chest heaving. His eyes flicker to Layla—pale, but breathing.
Alive.