Sohalia choked back another sob as Mateo instructed her to wait, rubbing her hands along her arms to ward off the chill that had settled in her bones. It seemed like he was gone for a while, but she'd be the first to admit that she was in no condition to count the seconds as they passed. She wondered if she should go into the alley behind her friend, if only to drag him away from the site of her crime. (She imagined it to be far more gruesome than it was, with only one stab wound in the man she'd left behind.)
What she was not expecting was for Mateo to emerge from the alley with her dagger in hand, stuffing something down the front of his shirt, with the proclamation that the man would probably be alright. "He - he's not dead?" she squeaked, relief flooding her at the notion. "Oh, thank the gods!" But in the back of her mind, something ugly and angry and afraid stirred. Why should the man who attacked her walk away freely, when they were having to run from the scene? It was a thought so unlike her that it left her reeling, and she shoved the ugly thoughts aside to examine later. Or never.
"Y-yes," she said, reaching out to take the dagger and slide it back into its sheath at her side. "Where are we going?"
What she was not expecting was for Mateo to emerge from the alley with her dagger in hand, stuffing something down the front of his shirt, with the proclamation that the man would probably be alright. "He - he's not dead?" she squeaked, relief flooding her at the notion. "Oh, thank the gods!" But in the back of her mind, something ugly and angry and afraid stirred. Why should the man who attacked her walk away freely, when they were having to run from the scene? It was a thought so unlike her that it left her reeling, and she shoved the ugly thoughts aside to examine later. Or never.
"Y-yes," she said, reaching out to take the dagger and slide it back into its sheath at her side. "Where are we going?"
