The Junkyard Refuge

Zane lay crumpled in the junkyard, his body battered and lifeless against the cold, unyielding pile of scrap. His face was pale, his chest rising and falling in uneven, shallow breaths. The bruises and cuts from his encounter with the Veteran painted a grim picture.

Through the haze of moonlight, a figure approached him. Kira stepped out from the shadows, her sharp gaze scanning his broken form. She crouched beside him, brushing her gloved hand against his face to check for signs of life.

“Still breathing,” she muttered, her tone neutral but laced with a hint of relief.

With a grunt of effort, Kira slipped her arms beneath Zane’s limp body and hoisted him up. He was heavier than she expected, but she carried him with ease, navigating through the maze of discarded metal and debris until she reached a small, run-down house tucked in the far corner of the junkyard.

The door creaked as she pushed it open, revealing a dimly lit room cluttered with tools, gears, and makeshift furniture. She laid Zane carefully on an old, patched-up couch, her movements surprisingly gentle for someone so brash.

Kira stood over him for a moment, hands on her hips, studying his battered face. “What kind of mess have you gotten yourself into?” she muttered under her breath, shaking her head.

She turned and grabbed a metal basin from a nearby table, filling it with water from a rusted tap. With quick, precise movements, she gathered a clean cloth, some antiseptic, and a roll of bandages.

Kira knelt beside Zane, dipping the cloth into the water. “You’re lucky I found you,” she said softly, almost to herself. “But don’t get used to it.”

She cleaned the dirt and blood from his face, her hands steady despite the severity of his injuries. When she reached his ribs, she paused, frowning at the deep bruises. “That’s gonna hurt like hell when you wake up,” she muttered, carefully wrapping the bandages around his torso.

The silence in the room was broken only by the faint sound of the heater and the occasional groan of the old house settling. Kira worked quickly but methodically, ensuring every wound was tended to.

When she was done, she sat back on her heels and studied her handiwork. Zane’s breathing was more even now, and the colour was slowly returning to his face.

Kira leaned back against the wall, crossing her arms. She watched him for a moment, her expression unreadable. There was a flicker of something—concern? Curiosity?—before she shook her head and pushed herself to her feet.

“You owe me one, kid,” she said quietly, glancing at him one last time before heading toward the door.

Outside, the junkyard was eerily quiet, the shadows stretching long under the pale moonlight. Kira stepped onto the porch, her sharp eyes scanning the perimeter. She didn’t trust the silence—it felt too still, too unnatural.

Her hand hovered near the small blade strapped to her thigh as she listened intently, every muscle in her body tense and ready.

Somewhere in the distance, the faint sound of heavy footsteps reached her ears. Kira’s eyes narrowed, her fingers curling around the hilt of her weapon.

“Well,” she muttered, her voice low and dangerous, “looks like the night’s not over yet.”