Consciousness returns slowly, dragging Layla up from a dark fog. Her eyelids flutter, heavy and uncooperative, each blink sending fractured glimpses of her surroundings skittering through her vision—cracked ceiling tiles, the dull gray of concrete walls, and a smear of rust in the corner that might be blood.
Layla's head throbs in time with her pulse, each beat a dull hammer against her temples. The scent of bleach and blood lingers in the air, sharp enough to sting. She tries to shift, but pain lances up her arm, white-hot and sudden, forcing a sharp hiss from between her teeth.
Memory returns in sluggish fragments—entering the building, fighting to stay awake, heat searing across her skin, August's voice low and steady as he put a cloth to her face. Her gaze drifts downward, finding her arm swathed in bandages, the fabric stained dark at the edges. Even breathing too hard makes the pain flare, nerves raw and protesting.
"Easy," a voice rumbles nearby. August, sitting against the far wall, forearms braced on his knees. There's blood—too much—coating his hands and forearms, the sleeves of his turtleneck rolled up to the elbows. His eyes are half-lidded, exhaustion carved into the lines of his face, but he's watching her intently, unblinking.
Layla swallows, her throat dry and raw. "Feel like garbage," she mutters, voice rasping.
August snorts, the sound flat. "Would be surprised if you didn't." He shifts, reaching for a half-crushed water bottle at his side and twisting off the cap. "Drink. Slowly."
She manages to prop herself up on her good elbow, head swimming, and takes the bottle with trembling fingers. The first sip burns going down, but she gulps greedily, greedier still when the taste of blood lingers on her tongue.
"Didn't think—" she pauses, breath hitching. "Didn't think you could sew." She starts smiling. "You're sure you're a man?"
"Don't start." August sighs in exasperation. "There's a lot you don't know about me."
Layla slumps back against the makeshift bedding, eyes slipping shut for a moment longer than she intends. "How bad was it?" she forces out, cracking one eye open.
August's mouth twitches, almost a frown. "I've seen worse," he replies evenly. "I got the shrapnel out and stitched you up. You'll live."
Somehow, that isn't as reassuring as it's meant to be. Layla huffs weakly, the sound tapering off into a cough that has her biting back a groan.
August leans back, tipping his head against the wall with a quiet exhale. The dark smudges under his eyes stand stark against his pallor, and for a moment, Layla almost says something—almost. But the words die on her tongue, and she turns her gaze to the ceiling instead, letting the silence settle.
Minutes stretch, marked only by the soft drip of water somewhere in the distance and the muted hum of the city outside. Her eyes slip closed, lashes brushing her cheeks, the ache in her arm dulling to a tolerable throb.
She breathes in, slow and steady, the scent of antiseptic and blood clinging to each inhale. It doesn't help the nausea churning in her gut, but it's something to focus on—something to anchor herself to, solid and tangible.
"You're lucky," August says suddenly, voice low and grating. "Another inch and that shrapnel would've hit an artery."
She smiles weakly, eyes half-open. "Thank you."
A beat of silence. "You're welcome."
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The silence between them stretches, thick with exhaustion and the remnants of pain. Layla's breathing steadies, but the ache in her arm still gnaws at her, a constant reminder of everything that went wrong. The city outside is far away now, its pulse a distant hum that seems too far removed from the immediate struggle they're in.
August rises, his movements slow but deliberate, his hands having been cleansed of Layla's blood using what water the building had left. He shifts his gaze toward the duffel bag sprawled across the cracked floor, the straps half-tangled and the fabric stretched thin from use. Without a word, he walks over to it, each step measured, his feet pressing down against the broken floorboards.
The bag groans under his touch as he pulls out the laptop—a clunky, makeshift thing. It's been through its share of rough handling, patched together from scavenged parts, wires poking out like a patchwork Frankenstein creation. The light from the street flickers through the grimy windows, casting sharp shadows on the walls, giving the room an eerie sense of stillness.
August sets it on the floor in front of him, opening it with a sharp snap. The screen flickers to life after a moment, its pale glow casting an unholy light on his face, still drawn with fatigue. His fingers hover over the keys for a moment before he starts typing—quick, precise, like it's second nature.
He didn't plan to call on a debt so soon, not after everything that has happened, but his options are limited. A contact. One person who might still be able to help him.
"If he's still alive, that is," August thinks as he opens up a new window, bypassing the default security measures, and quickly pulls up an encrypted messaging app. It's the same one he used two years ago the last time he was in Dubai. A reliable line—hard to trace, even for the most sophisticated eyes. His heart beats in anticipation as he types his message.
AW - YOU STILL IN DUBAI?
He stares at the screen for a beat longer, fingers twitching, before he presses send. He leans back, his eyes scanning the dim room, the silence of the abandoned building almost suffocating. The faint hum of the city outside.
Seconds pass. Then a minute. His gaze flicks back to the screen, frustration bubbling in his chest as the message remains unanswered. He exhales sharply, tapping his fingers on the cracked surface of the laptop.
AW - WE NEED TO TALK. IT'S IMPORTANT. ARE YOU THERE?
Another minute drags by. Nothing. He knows this game well enough—secure lines are always risky. People go dark, especially in a city like Dubai, where allegiances shift as quickly as the winds. But if this contact is still there, still alive, they're his best shot at getting closer to the truth—and getting out.
Finally, the message icon flickers, indicating a response.
The text pops up, short, and to the point:
AJ - STILL HERE, AUGUST. WHY?
August's eyes narrow as he reads it. There's a trace of suspicion in the reply, but nothing too alarming. A response, however cryptic, is all he needs. He taps out his reply, fingers steady despite the gnawing urgency in his chest.
AW - YOU SAID LAST TIME, YOU WOULD LEAVE FOR AMERICA WHEN YOU WERE DONE IN DUBAI, CORRECT?
He waits, watching the blinking cursor. Another minute, and the response is there:
AJ - UNDERSTOOD. HAVE A CONNECTION AT DUBAI INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT. WILL FORWARD DETAILS.
The gravity of the situation sinks in, and August knows the next steps are critical. Layla remains quiet, watching as he exchanges encrypted messages. She appears both curious about the conversation and apprehensive about whatever news he's receiving.
AJ responds with the details:
AJ - MR. KHAN. DARK SUIT. TERMINAL 3. PHRASE: "LOST MY WAY IN THE SAND." RESPONSE: "THE WIND WILL GUIDE YOU."
AW - FOR HOW LONG?
August types the message and sends it, waiting anxiously for a response. After a few tense moments, AJ replies.
AJ - 24 HOURS. THAT'S HOW LONG YOU HAVE TO GET TO THE AIRPORT.
August disconnects from the line and closes the laptop. He turns to Layla. "We need to leave soon," he says, voice firm. "We can't stay here much longer—we're running out of time."
Layla sits up, eyes flickering with concern. "Where… where will we go?" she asks softly.
"Good news or bad news first?" August moves to stash the makeshift laptop back into his duffel bag.
Layla stares at him intently, brow furrowing. "Uh… bad news first," she says, bracing herself.
August exhales, moving away from the duffel bag. "Alright. The bad news is we have twenty-four hours to get to Dubai."
Her eyes widen. "Dubai? But… that's so far away," she stammers, voice trembling.
"Yeah," he mutters. "Now for the good news—we've got a plane waiting. We just have to make it there in time."
Layla swallows, nodding slowly, determination creeping into her gaze despite the anxiety.
"Alright then," August says, reaching for his duffel bag again to grab a change of clothes—his current ones torn and bloodstained from the crash. "I'm going out to get supplies. We need clothes, food, and water."
Layla's eyes dart to him. "Alone?" she asks, voice hesitant.
"Safer that way," he replies, already pulling on a fresh shirt. "You're in no condition to move yet."
She bites her lip but doesn't argue, slumping back slightly.
"I won't be long," August adds, slinging Layla's book bag over his shoulder. "It's night. Keep your pistol ready, alright?"
She exhales shakily but nods, fingers brushing the holster at her side as if to reassure herself. "Just… don't take forever," she mumbles, trying to mask the worry in her tone.
August's mouth quirks slightly—a ghost of a smirk. "Not planning on it."