Rony pressed his back against the car, his legs sprawled on the pavement. The metal pipe in his chest jutted out grotesquely like a cruel flag planted by fate itself. With every tiny breath, pain jolted through his body like tiny knives, stabbing into every rib, every tendon, every memory.
He tilted his head, trying to remain upright, but the world was listing sideways. Somewhere down the street, someone was screaming for help. Distant sirens began to wail, slowly drawing closer. Tires screeched. Horns blared. But all of it sounded muffled to Rony, like he was underwater.
He coughed—wet and heavy—and something thick rose in his throat. He turned his head and spat blood, dark and metallic, onto the ground.
"I'm not… gonna die…" he whispered, his voice barely audible even to himself.
Was he saying it to the world? To himself? To his mother?
His mother's face flashed in his mind. That faint, gentle smile. Her scent of jasmine and tea leaves. Her tired eyes that still held warmth. He saw her at the hospital, skin pale, hands cold in his. And then… gone.
He hadn't cried then.
But now, something burned in his eyes. He couldn't tell if it was pain or sorrow or both. He blinked hard, blinking against the dusk.
A sudden cough wracked his body. It pulled against the metal embedded in his chest, and he screamed — a raw, hoarse sound that cracked the silence around him. His hand instinctively reached for the pipe, but he stopped himself.
Don't pull it out. You know better, idiot. That'll kill you for sure.
"I need… help…"
He glanced around.
A few people had gathered farther down the bridge, forming a nervous cluster. Most were too scared to approach. Some had already run off to call for help. A man in a delivery uniform hesitated, then took a step toward Rony — but was stopped by a uniformed guard, one of the VIP's team now securing the area.
Rony could hear their voices in fragments.
"He's not part of the convoy—"
"Could be a trap."
"He's just a civilian!"
"We can't risk anything—stay back!"
Civilian.
Just a nobody.
He laughed bitterly, and the laughter twisted into another cough. This time, blood splattered his chin. He wiped it away with the sleeve of his coat.
"You people think I'm nobody," he muttered. "I was just walking…"
His phone vibrated in his coat pocket. Weakly, he fished it out.
Sister: Where are you?
Another buzz.
Sister: Rony??? Answer me. It's dark already. Please don't mess around.
His vision trembled, but he tapped a reply with blood-slick fingers:
Me: Got hurt. Bridge. Don't panic.
He hit send. The screen blurred. He couldn't even tell if the message had gone through.
The pain was getting worse. His legs felt like sandbags. The metal in his chest now pulsed with each heartbeat, a cruel drum that marked his every second closer to collapse.
But he wouldn't faint.
He couldn't.
"I'm not… dying here…" he said again, more stubbornly this time, like saying it enough times would force the universe to listen.
A flicker of light caught his eye.
Blue and red.
Sirens.
The ambulance was coming.
Relief flooded him for a brief second, but then another thought crushed him. What if they couldn't reach him? What if the guards blocked them, mistaking him for a threat?
"I'm not… a threat… I'm not…"
A shadow passed over him. Someone had approached. Rony blinked up into the face of a young man — early twenties, trembling, clearly terrified. He had a medic's badge hanging from his hoodie.
"Hey! Hey, you're still awake? Can you hear me?" the boy asked, kneeling beside him.
Rony nodded weakly. "Pipe…" he whispered. "Right chest…"
"Oh my god," the boy murmured, his hands hovering over the wound but not touching. "You're… Jesus, you're gonna be okay, alright? Stay with me. I'm a volunteer medic—I saw everything, I—"
He shouted to someone behind him. "Get the stretcher! We need saline and pressure wraps!"
Rony could feel fingers at his wrist, checking his pulse. Another voice — older, calmer — joined them. A woman in paramedic uniform now crouched over him, snapping on gloves, assessing the wound.
"We have a puncture trauma, chest cavity. Right side, entry wound—pipe still lodged. Do not remove. I repeat, do not remove."
Rony tried to speak, but she held his shoulder gently.
"You're okay. You're okay, kid. We're here now. Stay awake for me, alright?"
He nodded. It was all he could do.
His phone buzzed again on the ground, the screen cracked now, but still blinking.
Sister: I'm coming right now. Don't move. You hear me?
Rony smiled.
That stupid smile of his.
Even with blood crusting his lips, even with pain ripping through every breath, he smiled.
Of course she'd come.
She always did.