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“That's because Alexi kept getting tetanus shots and crying like a baby,” I shoot back.

“I was seven!” Alexi protests from his corner. “And you made me think I was going to die from a rusty nail.”

“You were going to die. Do you know how many people get lockjaw from?—”

“Oh God, here we go,” Dmitri groans. “Medical lecture incoming.”

The door opens, and Nikolai steps in, still in his suit from the exchange but with his tie loosened. He looks between the three of us, taking in Dmitri's bandages and our surprisingly light mood.

“How's the patient?”

“Demanding,” I answer before Dmitri can speak. “Wants to get discharged already.”

“I have work to do,” Dmitri argues. “Board meeting tomorrow, three acquisitions to finalize?—”

“You have a hole in your shoulder,” Nikolai points out mildly.

“Small hole.”

“Bullet hole,” I correct.

Alexi looks up from his laptop. “Want me to hack the board's calendar? Reschedule everything?”

“Don't you dare,” Dmitri warns, but there's no real heat in it.

Nikolai moves to the foot of the bed, crossing his arms. “Igor's people scattered after the shooting. We're tracking them, but he's gone underground.”

“Good riddance,” Alexi mutters.

“What about his business interests?” Dmitri asks, immediately switching to work mode despite being shot less than six hours ago.

“We'll discuss it when you're not bleeding through bandages,” Nikolai says firmly.

“I'm not bleeding—” Dmitri looks down at his shoulder, where a small red spot has indeed appeared on the white gauze. “Shit.”

I'm already moving, checking the dressing. “You pulled the stitches. Stay still.”

“It's fine?—”

“It's not fine. Alexi, get me fresh gauze from the supply cabinet.”

“On it,” he says, abandoning his laptop immediately.

Nikolai watches our routine with amusement. “Some things never change.”

“Hold still,” I mutter, carefully peeling away the blood-soaked gauze from Dmitri's shoulder.

He hisses through his teeth. “Could you be a little gentler? I'm wounded here.”

“Could you be a little less dramatic? It's a graze.”

“A graze that required twelve stitches,” Alexi chimes in, returning with the medical supplies.

I focus on cleaning the wound, but my hands shake slightly.

“Erik,” Dmitri says. “You're being rougher than usual.”

I pause, realizing I've been pressing too hard on the gauze. “Sorry.”