Gladers choice | TMR | Thomas | Minho

Chapter Fourty

Thomas

Thomas's chest tightened the moment he saw the flash of the Crank's gun. His mind raced, trying to catch up with the situation unfolding in front of him, but by the time he understood what was happening, Lyra had already acted. She'd jumped in front of him, shielding him from the bullet—and it had caught her.

Time seemed to slow, every sound distorting into a distant hum as he heard the sharp crack of the shot. His eyes locked onto her, and for a brief second, he didn't know if she was standing or falling. The sight of her crumpling against him, clutching her side, sent his heart crashing. The warmth spreading across her shirt beneath his fingers wasn't just sweat—it was blood. Bright, stark red against her pale skin. Thomas felt his stomach drop, a suffocating wave of panic washing over him as he pressed his hands against the wound, desperate to stop the bleeding.

"Lyra," he said, his voice cracking as he looked down at her face. Her eyes fluttered, barely focusing on him. "What the hell were you thinking?" His words came out sharp, trembling, as his thumb brushed against her temple, pushing strands of hair away from her face.

Her lips curved faintly—not a smile, but something close. "I... couldn't let him..." she mumbled, her voice weak, barely audible over the chaos erupting around them.

He shifted her slightly in his arms, her head falling against his shoulder. His heart hammered against his ribs, his mind racing with everything he needed to do and couldn't. She felt too light in his arms, too fragile, and it was killing him.

She just stared at him, exhausted, eyes glassy and unfocused. He could see the pallor of her skin, the slight sheen of sweat that clung to her. He could feel the way her body trembled, the soft rise and fall of her chest—though her breathing was too shallow, too weak.

A grim realisation crept into his chest. It wasn't just the bullet—she wasn't just injured. It had hit her somewhere deep enough to bleed, but not enough to be fatal. What unsettled him was the feeling clawing at his chest—the overwhelming fear that something worse might come. Something beyond the visible pain—infection, sickness, weakness.

Thomas's eyes flicked down to the red staining her side, to the dark smear spreading across her clothes. His breath caught as the memory surfaced—she had been hit by something... dirty. The sick realisation hit him in the pit of his stomach—the kind of wound that wouldn't just heal on its own.

"Stop." He caught her hand mid-motion as she reached down, her fingers tracing the blood soaking through her shirt, as though she could somehow absorb it. His grip tightened gently, firm but protective. His jaw tightened as he glanced back up at her, his voice softer this time. "Don't look at it. You'll be okay. Just... don't think about it."

Her fingers curled slightly against his, trembling. And for a brief, aching moment, Thomas saw more than just a girl who had gotten shot—he saw someone fighting to stay calm, to keep it together even when everything in her was screaming in pain.

The sound of Minho's fists colliding with the Crank barely registered in the background. Thomas's focus was entirely on Lyra—the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the faint colour that hadn't entirely drained from her face yet. His mind screamed to do something, to help her, to fix this. But all he could do was hold her tighter, pressing his hands against the wound, willing the bleeding to stop.

Minho's grunts and the sickening sound of fists against flesh broke through his haze briefly, pulling his attention for just a moment. He turned his head, seeing Minho, wild-eyed and relentless, beating the Crank into the ground.

"Minho, stop!" Brenda's voice cut through the chaos, sharp and commanding.

"Get off me, Jorge!" Minho's voice was raw as Jorge pulled him back, wresting him away from the Crank's limp, bloodied form.