Page 106 of Problematic

“It feels wildly fucking important to me.”

“Ms. Heart.”

“Stop calling me that!”

A pause.

“Ms. Heart,” he said again smoothly. “I need you to tell me where the asset is bleeding.”

I stared down at the masked man. “Everywhere” felt like the honest answer. “Shoulder,” I said. “Left side. There’s a lot of blood there. And under his ribs. Wrist too, I think. His coat is torn. I don’t know how deep. I don’t know what I’m looking at.”

“Is there silver?”

My stomach turned.

“What?”

“Silver. Do you see silver in the wound? Any gray smoke, black veins, burning around the edges?”

I forced myself to look.

The shoulder wound was ugly. Torn fabric. Dark blood. Too dark. Around the edge, the skin I could see beneath the ripped shirt looked angry, streaked with faint gray lines that pulsed once when I leaned in too close.

My mouth went dry.

“Yes,” I whispered. “Shoulder.”

The voice went silent.

“How much?”

“I don’t know. I’m not a doctor.”

For the first time, he sounded worried. “Keep pressure on it. Keep him talking. If he goes quiet, slap him.”

I stared at the phone. “Slap him?”

“Hard.”

The masked man’s mouth twitched.

“Oh, you like that idea?” I snapped.

“A little,” he rasped.

“Freak.”

“FOCUS,” the voice yelled.

“I am focused! I’m just also being sexually harassed by a dying man.”

“He isn’t dying.”

“You’re very confident for someone not watching him redecorate my couch with blood.”

I shoved the phone between my shoulder and ear, grabbed a blanket, and pressed it to the wound under his ribs. He jerked violently. His hand clamped over mine.

“Sorry,” I whispered. “I know. I know.”