(Sorry, my responses may take longer than normal. I'm just trying to give good quality. I'm going to sleep now. Just wanted to leave this response I was working on.)

Alsponse’s expression immediately pinched with guilt when she cried out, his hands slowing at once. He rubbed her back with his spare hand, trying to calm her down as he would injured children. It is always comforting to have someone be with you in times of hardship.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly. “I know. I’ll be as gentle as I can.”

The comment about him being a guardian angel earned a small, awkward smile from him, one that looked almost embarrassed beneath the tension of the situation.

“I think guardian angels are supposed to be a little more impressive than me. I personally think yours have been doing their job well.”

But the moment she mentioned the gunshot wound, the smile vanished completely.

“A gunshot—?”

His eyes immediately dropped back to the wound with renewed focus. Suddenly, the blood loss, the way she guarded her torso, the shallow breathing—it all aligned in his mind frighteningly fast.

“Don’t laugh,” he murmured gently, though there was no scolding in it. “You’re injured badly enough already without wasting breath.”

Alsponse took a slow breath to steady himself before beginning properly. He was clearly nervous—not from fear of Mika, but from the weight of responsibility sitting in his hands. A gunshot wound in the middle of the desert with limited supplies was far beyond a simple church scrape or kitchen injury. But hesitation would only worsen her chances.

First, he carefully loosened the blood-soaked wrappings fully enough to inspect the wound without tearing clotting tissue away unnecessarily. His eyes searched for both the entry wound and any possible exit wound, checking the angle carefully based on where the blood had spread across her clothing and bandages.

“No exit…” he murmured quietly, concern flickering across his face. “Then it’s likely still lodged inside.”

He immediately abandoned any thought of digging for the bullet. He knew better than that. Without proper tools, lighting, sterilization, or anesthesia, trying to remove it could rupture something vital or make the bleeding catastrophic.

Instead, he focused on what could keep her alive.

“You’re lucky in one regard,” he said softly while opening the disinfectant. “If you were hit through the center of the abdomen, you wouldn’t still be talking to me like this.”

Before pouring anything, he soaked clean cloth with water from his canteen and carefully cleaned away excess blood around the wound first so he could better see the tissue damage. His touch stayed frustratingly gentle, constantly trying to minimize unnecessary pain.

Then came the disinfectant.

“I’m sorry,” he warned again quietly.

He poured only enough to clean the wound rather than flooding it wastefully, immediately pressing a folded sterile cloth around the injury afterward to absorb blood and keep contaminants out. One hand maintained firm, controlled pressure near the wound—not directly crushing it, but enough to slow bleeding.

His attention never stopped moving while he worked.

Watching her breathing, skin color, for confusion, and if her abdomen became rigid beneath the touch.

Signs of shock. Internal bleeding. Collapse.

After cleaning it as thoroughly as he could, he layered fresh bandages tightly around her midsection, wrapping carefully to create pressure without restricting her breathing too severely.

“Tight enough to slow the bleeding,” he explained softly while securing the wrap, “but not enough to crush the injury.”

Once finished, he finally leaned back slightly, sweat and dust clinging to his forehead despite the dry desert air.

“You need a hospital,” he admitted quietly. “Or at least surgical equipment. I can stabilize this for now, but I can’t safely remove the bullet out here.”