The dim light flickered, making it all the fucking more difficult to see what we were doing as it cast these huge, jagged shadows across the crumbling brick walls. At least it helped that I couldn't see all the mould anymore, a small mercy.

I glanced at Cillian and caught, even in the darkness, how his pale face twisted with pain. He was trying to play it cool, keeping up his 'I'm a tough gangster' attitude, but the way his breath hitched every time we touched his wound said otherwise. The infection, although doused in alcohol and medicine, smelled like rot—like something inside him was already dying—and no amount of fucking bravado was going to change that.

"We need more than just basic supplies or this isn't going to get any better," Charlie muttered as he rummaged through his near-empty bag of goods. "He needs to be seen by someone who actually knows what they're doing."

I wiped my hands on a rag that probably wasn't much cleaner than the rest of the room, trying not to think too hard about what kind of bacteria was already crawling on it. "Agreed. We can't let this get any worse. Another dead gangster isn't going to help our case at all."

Cillian let out a weak chuckle, strained but still laced with a hint of humour. "Don't worry about me. I've been through worse. I'll pull through."

I shot him a sharp look, my patience running thin. "No, you won't. You can barely sit up, and that infection's going to kill you if we don't get it sorted."

He winced as he gave a half-hearted shrug, the movement too much for his battered body. "Well, unless you've got a doctor hiding in one of these rat holes, I think this is the best we're gonna be able to do."

Before I could bite back, Charlie cut in, his voice clipped even as he continued to rummage through his bag. "Could you both shut the fuck up for a minute?" His words came fast and urgent. His eyes flicked up to meet mine. "I think I know someone who could help. An old friend. Someone actually qualified for this shit."

I raised an eyebrow, sceptical but desperate. "Qualified? As in an actual doctor?"

"More like a medic," he corrected, pulling out a battered phone. "We crossed paths a few times back in the day. He's not exactly licensed anymore, but he knows his stuff. If anyone can patch up something like this, it's him."

Cillian grunted in pain, but managed to smirk through it. "Sounds like my kind of guy."

"And you're sure he won't just turn us over to the police?" I asked. 

Charlie sighed. "Yeah, trust me on this one. Have I failed you yet?"

I rolled my eyes. "Alright," I said, feeling a flicker of hope. "While we're at it, I'll reach out to a former employer of mine. He's got connections in the black market—fake IDs, clean passports, the lot. We need to be ready to move if things go south."

Cillian's eyes flickered with interest. "You sure about that? Bringing other people into the fold?"

I shrugged, masking my apprehension with indifference. "It's our best shot. Besides, we don't have much of a choice. Unless you want to rot in here until you die?"

The room fell silent for a moment as Charlie looked between us, his expression grim. "We need to stick together, trust each other. So let's start by sharing what we know."

I met Cillian's gaze, seeing the same resolve in his eyes that I felt in my own. "Alright," he said slowly. "But let's make one thing clear. The people after me... they're not the kind you want to mess with. If we're going to do this, we need to be smart, careful."

"And we will," I replied. "We'll get what we need and get out of the city. We're on the run so we might as well start running. But first, let's make sure you don't die, yeah?"

Charlie gave a curt nod, already scrolling through his contacts. "I'll give him a ring now, let him know our situation is... sensitive. See if he can come meet us here."

As he stepped away to make the call, I turned my attention back to Cillian, who was struggling to stay conscious. The dim light did nothing to hide the sweat beading on his forehead, or the way his breathing had become shallow and laboured.

"We'll get you patched up," I said softly, though I wasn't sure if I was reassuring him or myself. Not that I cared much for this guy I barely knew, but I still didn't want his death on my conscience. Besides, if he died I'd be screwed.

His eyes flickered open, focusing on me with an intensity that made my stomach tighten. "You better," he muttered. "I don't plan on dying in a place like this."

"Good," I replied, trying to inject some levity into my tone, though the strain was obvious. "Because without you I'm fucked. So just— don't die. Okay?"

Cillian managed a weak smile, but it quickly faded as another wave of pain hit him. I watched him carefully, feeling the seconds tick by with agonising slowness. Charlie's conversation in the background was a low hum, barely audible over the pounding in my ears.

When Charlie returned, he looked relieved but I could see the unease hiding in his eyes. "He's coming," he said, slipping the phone back into his pocket. "But we need to be ready to move as soon as he's done."

I found myself glancing around at the decaying walls and the constant rustle of junkies in the corners, and nodded. "Got any suggestions?"

Charlie let out a nervous laugh and he scratched the back of his head with a forced grin. "I was kinda hoping you'd have that bit covered," he admitted, "This is about as far as my connections go."

I felt a wave of frustration rise in my chest, but I swallowed it down, knowing this wasn't the time. He'd already done enough, certainly more than me, and I was the reason he'd been dragged into this shitshow.

Cillian's laboured breathing pulled my attention back to him as he tried to smirk, but it came out more like a grimace. "Well, looks like we're all flying blind here."

Screwed — in a difficult or hopeless situation; ruined or broken.