Moments before midnight

DETOX

Lorenzo stood there, his portly figure casting a broad shadow under the streetlights. He was a familiar presence, one that had been with John through thick and thin. His tan skin, thick, dark hair, and the unmistakable Italian vibe radiated from him—if his accent or tailored attire hadn't given it away first. Despite his friendly demeanor, John could tell Lorenzo was here on official business, and it wasn't something either of them would enjoy.

"Look," Lorenzo began, his voice filled with genuine concern, "the council's going to want you involved, especially after this. I hate to ask, but are you willing to work with them? I know after the last job, you're not exactly thrilled with being tied to their business, but—"

John raised his hand, cutting him off firmly. "Not going to happen. This was a one-time thing. Since you're here, though, I've got debts owed. Get me an apothecary or one of those witch doctors. I need these wounds closed up, and fast. I don't care about the trade-off."

Lorenzo's face showed a momentary flicker of disappointment, but he didn't argue. He knew John too well for that. What was said, was final. Instead, he took a step back, nodding, accepting that the conversation had reached its end.

"Good to see you, pal," John said, the tension between them easing.

Lorenzo gave a quick nod. "Likewise." He turned, heading back toward the cars, leaving John to his thoughts—and his wounds.

John knew this wasn't over, not by a long shot. But for now, all he could focus on was getting patched up and finding a way to keep himself out of the council's grip.

The witch doctor, Tilda, had worked quickly and efficiently, muttering an incantation under her breath. Her hands moved in a precise, rhythmic pattern over John's battered torso, the words a strange fusion of langues john couldn't quite make out.

"Επούλωση βύθισης, zashchita i khorovod, эй, время вслушивается..."

The air around them seemed to thrum with energy, and John could taste copper on his tongue, his senses assaulted by the smell of ozone. The pain was sharp, almost unbearable, as the wounds sealed and scarred over. It wasn't unlike being torn apart again but in reverse, as if time itself had been sped up around his injuries. He gritted his teeth, suppressing a grunt.

Tilda, meanwhile, was all business. She gave him a cursory once-over after the ritual, noting the crisscross of scars on his body. "How are you still alive?" she asked, bewildered by the sheer number of healed-over wounds.

John, pulling his jacket back on, smirked grimly. "Some days I ask myself the same question. Guess it's a bit of luck."

Tilda raised an eyebrow, clearly incredulous. "A bit?"

He shrugged nonchalantly, as if shrugging off near-death was something routine. "I've been at this for a while. I've gotten pretty good at staying alive. Thanks to people like you, too."

Her eyes flicked back to him, almost dismissively. "I'm assuming Lorenzo's picking up the tab? Or do I get paid now?"

John shook his head. "Speak to Lorenzo. The commission owes me, and I'm collecting on it." He paused, then asked, "What's your name? I might need your help again."

She glanced at him with a curious look, almost as if sizing him up, then relented. "Tilda. But I've got class from 2 to 6, so if you're bleeding out then, you're out of luck."

John chuckled, appreciating her bluntness. "I'll try not to die on your schedule. Got a number I can reach you at?"

She rolled her eyes but handed over her phone. After quickly punching in her contact info, she handed it back. He thanked her and bid her farewell before heading off.