Elias counted like he was suturing a wound closed.
One breath in, two out. One breath in, two out.
He kept doing it because numbers usually kept the thing inside him small enough to be ignored.
Only today, that thought didn't quite hold.
It felt wrong to think of his hands as anything but instruments.
They bled efficiency. They learned patterns and then memorized the exceptions.
He could cradle an artery with a finger and let a man live while the world yelled itself hoarse.
Counting stitches was a discipline; it meant he could ignore the other noises.
The yard rattled. Men shouted. The Saint trucks smoked and folded like the false confidence they were.
New bikers moved like a second tide at the edge — well-maintained machines, their helmets bright, and hands that had been trained to believe they belonged to the right sort of chaos.
Zubair was a map in motion. He kept the whole thing coherent.
