Dylan had wrapped a bandage around his arm, right where Élisa had cut him to get those creepy things out of his body.
The bleeding had stopped... only to start up again, even worse.
On the way, all he had left to defend himself was his machete, now that his rifle was out of ammo.
At one point, he thought about chucking the damn thing — seriously, carrying dead weight? No thanks.
But he hesitated.
Leaving something like that out in the wild felt... wrong.
"That thing cost a fortune…" he muttered. He could probably sell it once they made it there.
Élisa, though, quickly shot that idea down.
Selling a gun like that? Way too risky. Too many procedures. Too many possible investigations.
And if some noble laid eyes on it and decided he liked it... Dylan, without a title or a name to protect him, would get squashed like a bug.
That was the kind of world waiting for them.
