Oh my God.

Whether I say the words aloud or the words flitter only in my thoughts, I don't know. Either way, my mind is whipped into overdrive.

He's bleeding.

The gunshot.

Oh God.

As if in water, feeling sluggish and slow, I move towards him. Without even being fully conscious of it, I am raising my hands, reaching out for his shoulder, breathlessly mumbling, "Where is it? Where are you bleeding?" My fingertips graze him, and at once Trip jerks away.

"Don't touch me," he growls through his teeth.

I'm baffled by his reaction. I shake my head and take another step towards him. "You're bleeding. Just... Let me help you. How bad is it? Let me—" The glare he sets on me stays my hand.

"Get. Back."

Jumping from his dangerous tone, I step away, wide-eyed.

An injured, snarling dog—that's what he is right now—ready to snap and bite at anyone who comes near him. His breath is tearing out of him. His gaze pierces my skin. In one hand he grips Hound's pistol, and the other clutches his shoulder. Blood oozes between his fingers; it glistens in the alley light. But it's too dark for me to see just how much he's losing.

If the bullet hit an artery Trip could die in minutes.

If we stay here much longer we'll both be dead. Someone was bound to hear that gunshot, and my screams.

I turn my head towards the mouth of the alley, the direction of the club. Onlookers have now clustered in the street. No one seems brave enough to approach us. Someone is talking into a phone, no doubt calling the police. "We need to go," I say immediately, but a glint of silver, something metallic, draws my attention. Trip's pistol lies where he'd tossed it. Quickly I clack over, pick it up, and hold it awkwardly in my palm. Skimming my thumb over the grip—carefully, very carefully—I check the safety. It's on.

Just one glance at Hound, at his chest still rising and falling, and I avert my gaze.

When I return to Trip, I realize he hasn't moved. His eyes are closed.

"Trip."

He opens his eyes, stares at the ground.

"Trip, we need to go, right now."

He doesn't stir. He doesn't even act like he heard me.

My heart flutters. He's starting to scare me. I'm so used to him calling the shots and telling me what to do, it feels so wrong for him not to. What if he's bleeding out, right now, before my very eyes? My panic rises a few more notches.

"Trip," I say with more force.

He lifts his head to look at me, but somehow his eyes look cloudy, like he's not really seeing me.

"Let's go. It's not that far—just please, we have to go."

This time he seems to hear me. He pushes off the wall.

The onlookers' voices bound off the walls, now sounding urgent as we start down the alley. I don't look back. I keep moving—with every step, Trip's pistol feeling heavier and heavier in my hand. When we reach the car, I glance aside at him. Maybe it's just the dimness of the streetlight, but he is starting to look pale. "Want me to drive?" I ask.

Without bothering to respond, he pulls open the back seat door and slides in. Taking that as a yes, I round the car, open the driver's side door, and get in. My heart thrashes against my sternum as I gingerly place the pistol in the empty passenger's seat.

"I need the keys." I reach behind me, and a moment later Trip drops the keys into my hand.

I start the car.

Not a minute down the road, I hear the sirens shrieking from the block over. My heel presses further down on the gas. The dark, towering buildings on each side of the street pass by faster. My eyes flicker up at the rearview mirror. Streetlights streak over Trip. He's pressed against the side of the door as if any second he'll need to bail out of the car. His breath is still quick, and it's becoming shallower. That's bad.

"How much are you bleeding? How bad is it? Should I stop somewhere?" I pause, and after a second of thinking, I add, "Should I take you to a hospital?"

Trip shakes his head. His voice comes raspy. "No. Just drive."

At least I got an order out of him. That's good, right?

Focusing on the road again, I draw my bottom lip between my teeth. It feels swollen.

It doesn't take much for me to remember the way back to Dax's. I know these roads. Fifteen minutes later I am swinging the car into a parking spot in front of the apartments. I cut the engine and fumble around in the dark for my purse on the passenger's floorboard. When the leather strap brushes my knuckles, I snatch it, drag it towards me, and stuff the pistol in.

Trip gets out of the car as I do, and before he shuts the door, I catch a glimpse of the blood smeared on the inside. My heart pounds even faster.

Leaving the sounds of the city nightlife behind us, we enter the apartment building. The heater hums. The bright hall lights hurt my eyes. My legs feel wobbly as I head for the elevator and push the UP button. And I thank God when the doors glide open immediately. We step into the elevator, and I press 15. The sleek doors slide closed. The elevator lurches.

"Going up."

I take a deep breath.

Now in the light, I press my back against the elevator wall and look Trip over. He leans against the wall opposite of me. Jaw clenched. Head down. Breathing ragged. Blood drips from his fingers and stains his dark shirt even darker. He's no longer holding the pistol. He must have put it away.

"How are you feeling?" I ask, my voice sounding shaky.

"I hate elevators."

"What?" I blink. Under different circumstances, I would have laughed. What a silly thing for him—Triple Threat—to hate.

"Just stay over there." He lifts his eyes to give me a look, a warning. "I'm serious."

"You have to let me help you."

"I don't fucking have to do anything."

"It's the pain, isn't it?"

He answers me with a glare. And I know I've hit home. The pain triggered his anxiety and shot it through the roof. His body is so tense, he's quaking.

"Floor Fifteen." The elevator doors slide open.

The floor is silent, vacant as we rush out and head towards Dax's apartment. My gaze jumps from number plate to number plate, until we arrive at room 1524. My heart leaps in relief. I grab the key from my purse, unlock the door, and throw it open. Barely through the doorway, I am already calling, "Dax!?"

I pause to listen.

No answer.

The lights are on in the kitchen, but the rest of the apartment is dark. And quiet.

Trip heads down the hall, to the bathroom, hitting the door behind his back as he walks in. The door swings, squealing on its hinges, and rests half closed. I hurry past it and fling open the computer room door. "Dax?!"

Empty. Just the glow of screensavers.

I dash towards the dark bedroom.

"Dax!? Where are you?"

Empty too.

No.

No, no, no, no.

Pausing in the hallway, I rummage through my purse with shaking fingers and pull out my cell phone. Thumbing through the contacts, I find Dax's cellphone number—the cellphone Trip told him not to use, but to keep on his person at all times. For once, I am actually hoping that Dax does fear Trip enough not to do something stupid.

The phone rings in my ear as I start towards the linen closet.

On the third ring, Dax answers. "Uh, yeah, hey. Sorry—"

"Where are you?!" The words burst from my mouth.

"Evette?" Shuffling. Struggling to adjust the phone. "Hey, sorry. I'm down the street. I'm on my way back. I thought I'd get us something to eat, some take-out. I felt bad. I didn't want you eating oatmeal again. Sorry. I knew you guys would probably freak if—"

"Trip was shot."

Silence. Then, "What?"

I search the linen closet, one-handed, sifting through towels and sheets. "Where's your first aid kit? Do you have any medical supplies? Are they in the bathroom?"

"What do you mean Trip was shot?"

My patience snaps. "I mean he was shot, Dax!"

"Oh shit. Oh God—"

"Where is your first aid kit?"

"I—I don't have one."

I stop searching. "What?"

"What happened? How bad is he?"

My trembling fingers go to my forehead. "Dax, I need a medical kit."

"Yeah, okay, okay. I'll... I'll get one from the corner store."

"How long will that take?"

"Uh, ten minutes, at tops."

Does Trip have ten minutes? I don't answer myself. "Just hurry, Dax."

"I will."

Knots twist my stomach as I hang up. Hastily, I run a hand through my hair and shove the phone in my purse. I grab a handful of towels. And I pause, throwing my head back to look up at the ceiling.

Okay. Now to deal with that snarling dog. No matter how much teeth he shows, don't take no for an answer.

Take a deep breath.

And go.

My heels clack twice before I stop and snatch the stupid things off. I throw them to the side and rush, barefoot, to the bathroom, slinging open the door. I skid to an abrupt stop.

Blood is smeared over the sink and counter. Trip is on the floor, slumped against the bathroom cabinets. Breathing shallow. Face pale. He doesn't even look conscious.

My hands and feet start moving automatically. "Trip?" I drop to my knees beside him. "Trip? Can you hear me?" Swallowing the hysteria threatening to choke me, my hands go to the shoulder he is still clutching.

As soon as I touch him, he jolts and jerks away. Lightning fast. Afraid he might lash out at me I snatch my hands back.

My hysteria rises.

Frustration kicks in.

And suddenly I am screaming, "For fuck's sake, just let me help you! You're going to die because you insist on being an idiot!"

His eyes open to slits and focus on me. This close to him, I notice thin splinters of silver—like steel—flecked in the center of his eyes.

With his attention now, I repeat, more calmly, "Just let me help you." I reach for him again, and this time he catches my wrist.

"Why should you care?" he asks, barely audible behind his labored breathing.

His question stumps me. The thought flutters through my mind: why am I helping him? But just as soon as it does, anger buds in my veins —anger towards him, anger towards myself for having asked such a senseless question, for even thinking that I have an alternative. He may have kidnapped me. He may be nothing but a tyrant. But I cannot watch him die.

"Because," I say, tugging at his grip with no success, "despite what you think about me, I'm not a killer. I can't just sit and watch someone bleed to death. Even you."

He holds my gaze a second or two more, studying me. And finally, he comes to a decision—a decision he must hate—because he releases my wrist and breaks the eye contact with a heavy, strained sigh.

Good. I've tamed the dog.

"Move your hand."

Compliantly enough, he drops his blood-coated hand, and my fingers automatically go to the buttons of his shirt, working to undo them.

Trip's head tips forward, eyes falling shut.

"Stay awake, please, Trip. Just stay awake," I beg, undoing another button, now revealing more and more of a smooth, well-defined chest. God. Even now, half conscious and bleeding all over the place, he looks as intimidating as ever. The guy is pure power and muscle.

Carefully, I peel his shirt away, and with experienced eyes, quickly examine his shoulder. It's a flesh wound. A bullet went through his shoulder just centimeters above his collarbone. I don't think it hit bone. It didn't hit an artery. It's not half as bad as it could have been. But the entrance and exit wounds are a mess. He's lost a lot of blood already. The front and back of his shirt are soaked.

I grab one of the towels. All of them are white. Mentally, I apologize to Dax.

The very second I apply pressure on his shoulder, Trip jerks—breathing accelerating, eyes flying open. He kicks the side of the bathtub in front of him, making me flinch. But I don't let off the pressure. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I've got to stop the bleeding," I whisper, watching the muscles in his jaw work, his chest heave wildly. His whole frame trembles at the forces of each rapid gasps.

He'll hyperventilate at this rate.

"Calm down, calm down. You're fine."

He's not listening.

"Trip, calm down. You're okay. Just breathe." I let one hand fall to his arm, trying to get his attention. "Breathe."

Hearing me now, he forces harsh, sharp breaths and slowly, gradually begins to gain control of himself. Still, I continue to watch his knuckles turn white as he clenches his hands into fists. And there is only one thought that runs through my mind:

What did they do to him?

This isn't a normal reaction to pain. What I am witnessing is a conditioned reaction to pain. Someone or something made him this way. And that thought makes me queasy.

In an attempt to put us both at ease, I try to strike up some kind of conversation. "How do you know him? Hound, I mean. Who is he?"

Trip opens his eyes, but doesn't look at me. "Blood."

"What?" Has disorientation set in?

"Bloodhound. He's another one."

I stare at Trip, at first not sure what he means. Then, it dawns on me. "He's another duplicate?"

Trip doesn't answer. He doesn't have to. Because, suddenly, the world and my thoughts shift ever so slightly, as if I am now looking at things from a different angle, a different lighting.

It makes sense. Hound is a duplicate. He stood next to Braxton like a soldier on guard. The nervous glances Verbeck shot Hound's way spoke a great deal.

But.

Hound spoke of Government almost like he was a part of it. And I can't picture Trip standing next to Braxton, not saying a word. I can't picture Trip blindly following orders. I can't picture that lifeless, nothingness in Trip's intense eyes.

My mind spins around and around, much too fast. I shake my head in an effort to clear my thoughts and ask, "How are you feeling?"

"Dizzy," Trip breathes.

Yeah, me too. "You've lost a lot of blood." And he's still losing more. Blood is already soaking through the towel, wetting my fingers. Quickly, shakily, I grab another towel, stack it on top of the first, and again press down on Trip's shoulder. He winces and grits his teeth, but otherwise doesn't move.

There are sounds from the living room then, the front door opening, quick footsteps into the apartment.

"Eve?" Dax calls.

"In here!"

Dax appears in the doorway looking flushed. Bunched in his arms are Chinese take-out boxes and plastic grocery bags. His bug-eyes dart over the blood dripping from the bathroom counter, then down at Trip on the floor. "Oh shit. How's he doing?"

"He's lost a lot of blood. But stay back."

Trip seems to be going under again—eyes closing, head tipping forward. He hasn't even reacted to Dax coming in. But I don't want to take chances.

"What happened?"

"I don't know." I shake my head. "Someone else showed up at the club."

"Evette..."

My eyes flicker up at Dax who is staring down at me now, at the bruises blotting my face. They probably look awful. The whole side of my face is throbbing.

Dax looks horrified. "Shit. Are you alright?"

"Yes, I'm fine."

"Who? Who was it? Who showed up?" Dax juggles the Chinese food to the hallway floor without taking his eyes off of me.

"I don't know." Only now do I realize tears are rolling down my cheeks. I reach up to wipe them away, but then stop myself when I remember my hand is covered with Trip's blood. I'm so dizzy. "His—his name was Braxton. He came in to talk to Verbeck. Somehow he recognized me."

Dax's eyes go wide. "Braxton?"

"You know who he is?"

Dax's hands go to the top of his head, as if he'll start pulling out his hair.

Alarmed at his reaction, I ask, "What? Who is he?"

"He's the head of it," Dax groans. "He oversees the whole thing."

"The head of what?"

He gestures at Trip. "The Duplicate Project."