She stares unseeingly at the blood coating her fingers, swallowing hard at the sight, shaking with each shallow breath. Something is very wrong with the Silver Savior. And I’m not supposed to care. I’ve seen trauma take on worse forms. Seen it cripple courage, devour dreams, and spit out the shell of a person. Trauma and I are well acquainted. “Come here.” The command is softer this time, sympathy seeming to smother the sternness in my voice.
