Elisa hesitated, her gaze caught between distrust and exhaustion. Then she yielded. Not to him, but to what he represented in that instant: Maggie's last chance. She stepped back just slightly, just enough to not be in the way. Dylan knelt beside the torn flank.
"Sorry…" he whispered, but that word wasn't meant for anyone. It was a murmur to the universe, to his own body, to the absurdity of the act he was about to commit.
He pushed aside the soaked fabric, pressed his open palm against the wound. And on his back, beneath skin stained with soot and dried blood, the stigma began to glow.
It wasn't a gentle light. It was raw. Harsh. As if the flesh refused to yield, but opened anyway under the force of a silent oath. A gash slowly opened on his own flank, exactly where Maggie was bleeding. A perfect mirror. The transfer had begun.
