So here's your warning that Tobias has a bit of a mouth this chapter. Once again, the reasoning behind this is that he has changed from war. In Chasm he swore often, but Tris somewhat mellowed him out. In tough situations though, well...

TOBIAS POV

The figure at the end of the hall crumples at the same time that Tris does.

My shot came too late.

It is bewildering, the way time moves in slow motion whenever something drastic happens. My head becomes fuzzy as I collapse onto my knees beside her, as if I am in another dimension where I am viewing reality through a murky lens.

Blood is a common theme in my life. From the time I could walk, it almost made a daily appearance, whether drawn from my mother or from me. Then my father didn't have to choose between whom the night's victim would be, so it was always my blood that stained my shirt or my sheets.

When I transferred, I both lost and drew blood during the time I learned how to fight. It didn't bother me much eventually. Until, I got an idea of just how much blood was stored in the human body; Abnegation members shot dead on their front lawns, Erudite guards and innocents slung across the stairs. There will always be too much of it spilt.

The color is so rich and a strange mixture of reds that will soon be browns. Why is there so much of it? When does it ever stop?

I squeeze my eyes shut to force out the other unimportant shocks. As soon as they open, I remember where I am, and why I am dwelling on the thought of blood.

It is hers.

The analytical side of me—the survivalist side—takes control. My brain rushes to catch up with my thoughts as I compartmentalize my emotions. Right now, if I want her to live, then I need to focus.

First, I locate the wound, where her hands are hovering. It is in her lower right of her abdomen, just above her pelvis. The angle at which she was shot is unconventional, I realize. Her stomach must have been grazed because the bullet didn't go straight in. With trembling hands, I turn her over to see the exit wound in her waist.

I am not positive about the placement of organs, but I think the bullet's path must have missed anything major. For now, I assume that she isn't in any immediate danger except for blood loss. And there is a lot of that.

Sliding the jacket from my shoulders, I loop the sleeves around her middle and tie them as tightly as possible. She cries out and tries to weakly push me away in between gasps for air.

Next, I quickly assess her state. If anything, she seems out of breath, like it was knocked out of her. Maybe she is too shocked to even feel the pain. I come to the conclusion that there is nothing I can do for her right now except get her out of here.

"We have to go," I say in a rush.

Unthinkingly, I haul her onto her feet, and she lets out another agonized cry. I sling her arm over my shoulder and support her on her good side.

"Tris, you have to put pressure on it," I demand as we make our way to the back stairs. It works for a moment to place her hand on the wound, but ultimately she can't hold her arm there and lets it hang again.

Thankfully, nobody is on the staircase this time. I keep my gun trained downward anyway because in a building stormed by factionless, we can never be too safe.

"Tris," I urge helplessly when I see her eyelids drooping. "Try to stay awake."

Still keeping her upright, I shove the back door of the Merciless Mart open. A gust of icy wind smacks me in the face and cuts at my now bare arms, and I cringe away from sting. The snow has really packed up in the last day, but I am able to make out several cars lined up in a lot not far away.

By now, Tris is mostly out of it, and I try to convince myself that this is nothing to worry about. Though the heavy amounts of blood wetting her shirt tell me otherwise.

I need to get help, fast. I don't have any clue about medical treatments. However, before I can even begin to figure out where we can go, I need transportation.

Approaching a random car, I try the handle. It is locked. I try another, and I am relieved when it catches, allowing the door to swing open. I recline the passenger seat before depositing Tris, who barely stirs in response to the jostling. Then I climb into the driver's side and slam the door shut behind me.

Momentarily, I stop to catch my breath. It shows up as a white wisp in the air, slowly fogging up the windows that are smothered in snow. My hands are still stained with blood and shaking when I manage to pry off the compartment under the steering wheel.

Marcus used to teach me about driving, and cars in general—probably the only useful lesson he passed along. One piece of information that he provided me with is how to hot-wire a car. I never thought I would use it, with cars seldom being used much anymore in the city, but I suppose now is that time.

I pull out my knife and search for the correct wires that I need to cut. I sift through each of them, attempting to recall which color was paired with what wire. It soon becomes apparent that I don't remember.

"Come on, come on..." I mumble frantically.

Was it blue and red? That doesn't seem right. Yellow and red? No, it was—

Maybe it isn't even that I don't remember, but that this car isn't like the one I practiced on.

I shake my head and grope for another set of wires. My fingers buzz so that I can't hold them steady.

What are you doing, Tobias? You're completely off track.

"I–I don't know," I say out loud. My lungs can't seem to get enough oxygen.

Now I can't even breathe, on top of everything else?

I fumble and drop my knife. It lands on the floor, and I awkwardly stretch down to grab it.

Are you dense? Am I raising an imbecile for a son? Do it right!

"I'm trying," I bark.

The knife evades my fingers again. My gaze shifts over to Tris, who bobs her head in her semi-unconscious state. A small whimper makes it to my ears.

The panic sets in deeper. Even in this frigid car, I am sweating horribly. Why can't I handle this?

Apparently I'm raising a damn moron. Can you even get the simple things right? Why do I even bother—

"Fuck!" I shout, slamming my hands against the steering wheel with explosive frustration. A sob interrupts it. "Fuck!"

With heaving breaths, I pray that this anxiety will collapse and give way to rational thought. Tris's life depends on me being able to process this situation without emotion.

When I feel the icy tears on my cheeks, I decide to put an end to this. Breaking down is not only cowardly, but it is plain stupid right now. If I care about her, then I have to cease the reflections back on myself.

One deep breath is all it takes to set my head straight. I pick up the knife from the floor with steady hands before I try to find the source of each wire. Locating them with much more ease than I thought, I cut the two necessary wires and twist them together. Then I touch the starter wires together, which admit a spark.

The engine revs. I sigh in relief.

Reaching over to check on the wound, I notice that the bleeding has begun to slow. For good measure, I tighten the jacket around her waist again. She gasps out in a haze of pain and jumps.

"Hey, I'm going to get you to help," I promise, hoping that her eyes won't slide past mine again. They do. "Just hold on."

But in truth, I have no idea where to head to. Amity and the factionless are out of the question, as is Erudite since they were recently taken over. Dauntless is clear across the city, and the roads I would take to get there cut straight through the factionless sector.

That leaves one option:

Abnegation.

Tris stirs in my arms and moans groggily.

"We're almost there," I say.

The frigid air scrapes at my skin. Shuddering, I pull her closer to me in hopes that she will radiate some warmth. Not that my body temperature matters; she needed my jacket more than I did.

"Where are we?" she mumbles, blinking. She seems more coherent now, and I take it as a good sign.

Not paying attention to where I am walking, I come dangerously close to slipping and taking us both down. When I manage to stabilize myself on the icy road, I decide to cut through the snow.

"Abnegation is just up ahead," I answer. It was obvious that I leave the car a few blocks behind in case someone followed us, and because it would be out of the ordinary to park it on the outskirts of the selfless faction. Now though, I am starting to regret it.

My arms are stiff from the cold and exertion. I huff out labored breaths as I trudge through the thickly layered snow.

To distract myself, I focus on her. "How much pain are you in?" I ask. "Are you doing okay?"

She presses her face into my shoulder sleepily. "I don't know. It hurts too much to tell."

It is clear that this gunshot wound is much more severe than the other one she has had. Although the shot in her shoulder was practically walked off, this is a different matter; there is a literal hole in her abdomen. I would say that I am unfamiliar with what she is suffering through, but unfortunately I know it all too well. The back of my leg aches at the reminder.

Once the squat, gray buildings are in sight, I push myself to move faster. The streets are deserted, likely having something to do with the light snow sprinkling onto the concrete. It is better this way; they can't spread word of Dauntless members hiding out in their faction.

I quickly recall which house is Tris's, since we were neighbors once. The lights are on inside, and they illuminate the dark, frozen path. I approach in a rush and kick the door because my hands aren't free.

Caleb cracks the door open carefully, and I barge in without asking. He stutters out something angry about the intrusion until he notices that his sister is bleeding drastically in my arms.

"Beatrice..." he says under his breath.

"She was shot," I state, moving farther inside and looking for somewhere to set her down. The kitchen table is the closest option, so I lay her down gently. She whimpers and clings to my arm.

"I-Okay, okay," Caleb says. His eyes dart around as he tries to find a solution, like the Erudite he once was. "We don't—"

Movement flashes in the corner of my eye, and on instinct, I draw my gun and aim it. An Abnegation girl—I think I recognize her as Tris's neighbor, Susan?—stands with her mouth agape as she stares down the barrel in terror.

"Hey!" Caleb growls. "Stop that. You can trust her."

I lower it and shake my head at my own paranoia. "Caleb, she needs help. She's been bleeding out for almost an hour—"

A knock at the door interrupts us. We all go rigid and silent, worried about who it could be. I was careful to make sure I wasn't followed, but the factionless could have picked up my trail when I crossed through the snow.

I keep my gun trained on the door as Caleb creeps up to the window next to it. He scrunches up his face in confusion when he sees the visitor.

"Who is it?" I whisper.

The door swings open without his permission, revealing Marcus Eaton himself.

"Are you out of your mind coming here?" he hisses, stomping over to me. "She—" He jabs his finger over at Tris. "—has half of the city furious, and you thought it would be a good idea to come to my faction? You have put us all in danger."

At first I am stuck in place, seeing him in an Abnegation house again. But that fear tucked in the back of my mind is overshadowed by an overwhelming, protective urge to keep him away from Tris. Last time he was around her, he marked her face with a bruise that lasted days. I am not about to let him even glance in her direction.

Caleb shuts the door, locking it this time around. I tuck my gun away and act indifferent to my father's presence.

"I don't have time to deal with you," I snarl, shoving past him. "Caleb, do you know a doctor that we can trust?"

He runs a hand through his frazzled hair. "There probably isn't even a doctor here right now at all," he says meekly.

"What?!" I burst out. "There isn't one doctor in this entire faction?"

"Many of them have been out helping the factionless. They have their supplies with them."

A hysterical laugh leaves me as I pace to the other side of the kitchen. It still comes as a shock to me sometimes how the Abnegation are altruistic to the point of stupidity. The faction that they are hellbent on supplying and aiding will one day try to conquer them, no doubt.

"I do have some medical supplies here," Caleb blurts out. "I don't know much, but in Erudite we were trained to handle basic medical procedures and emergency—"

"Then hurry!" I demand.

He nods and races up the stairs for his tools. Tris slurs my name, and I immediately turn back to her.

"What's going on?" she whines.

"Caleb is going to stitch you up," I explain, unknotting the jacket from her waist. She coughs out in pain as I peel her soaked shirt away from her skin.

The wound has evolved into a more agitated purple color around the edges. The blood leaks out from the site steadily, and I suddenly wish that I hadn't looked.

Caleb bounds down the stairs uncoordinatedly. He sets his medical kit down on the counter and sifts through it while I run a hand over Tris's hair, trying not to be alarmed by what I just saw. Susan—who has gotten past the shock of our encounter—migrates over to the other side of her and holds her hand reassuringly.

"I don't have any painkillers," Caleb announces as he washes his hands thoroughly.

I grumble an expletive under my breath.

"Well, I'm sorry! This is only Abnegation, where comfort doesn't matter!"

"Do you want her to die?" I bark. At the moment, I can't help but be skeptical of where Caleb's loyalties lie again. He has a right to be anxious, but he is wasting time with it.

"Caleb?" Tris asks, puzzled. She blinks against the single lightbulb shining down onto her.

"I'm right here, Beatrice," he replies. "This is probably going to hurt a lot, but I'm going to do some minor surgery."

She doesn't seem too thrilled by the idea.

"Did the bullet go all the way through?" His voice is muffled when he places a mask over his mouth and nose. I watch as he snaps on gloves and covers his hands in a liquid that must sterilize them, I assume.

I nod. "Yes," I answer. "The exit wound is not quite on her back, but almost."

Caleb turns back to the table and peers down at the wound marring her slim waist. He hums and barely prods at it, making her stir.

"I don't think any organs were grazed, but I can see that there is shrapnel in there. I need to get it out before I stitch the wound shut."

I don't respond because my mind is frazzled. My head follows him around to find something I can help with, but unfortunately I am not Erudite. And certainly not a doctor.

Susan picks up on my urge. "Caleb, how can we help?" she asks softly.

He grabs the bottle of alcohol and hovers over his sister. "I'll need your help handing me tools in a moment," he says. "And Four, talk to her. Keep her occupied."

I do as he commands and bend down next to her. "Hey, Tris," I start to grasp her attention.

"Hmm?" She squints over at me, reaching out.

My hand intertwines with hers just as Caleb pours the sterilizing liquid onto the wound. The burning sensation elicits an awful response from her as soon as it drops: her eyes widen, a scream leaves her, and she flies forward on instinct to protect herself. I catch her just in time, pinning her arms and torso onto the table.

"Marcus, hold her legs!" Caleb demands. I don't even mind when he does, as long as it keeps her from hurting herself.

"It burns," she gasps in between sobs. "It burns..."

My chest tightens as I watch the pain pick her apart. I know her better than anyone, and suddenly I don't even know how to comfort her. It certainly isn't reassuring that she will have to suffer through worse in a moment.

I can't tell her that it is okay when it isn't. I can't tell her that it will all be over soon because I am sure that the recovery, if she survives, will not be ideal.

So I give her the best encouragement I can. With my cheek pressed to hers, I mutter in her ear, "I need you to do something for me. This will be one of the hardest things you will have to endure, but I need you to keep something in mind."

She chokes on her tears. "What?"

"Be brave," I whisper. If she can face her imaginary and real fears, if she can gather the strength to fight back against all odds, then she can manage pain, no matter how grueling. "Can you do that?"

Tris nods against me and sniffles.

"I'll be right here the whole time. You can squeeze my hand as hard as you like," I offer.

A weak chuckle vibrates through her chest. I take her hand again and press her shoulders into the table.

"This will probably be the worst part," Caleb reminds us. "And we will have to flip her on her side as soon as I get the debris out."

"Just do it," Tris whimpers.

It is obvious that this will be a gory, execrable process at the first touch of the tweezer-like tool that Caleb is handling. Tris screams out the agony, trembling underneath me because it is the only movement she can make. It is the most nightmarish sound, and when I close my eyes to keep my own sentiment at bay, all I can see is her struggling during Jeanine's torture with the fear serum.

After the next few blood-curdling cries, it becomes too much. I angrily round on Caleb without letting go.

"Are you even getting anything out?" I snap.

He glares down at the messy work he is doing. "Yes, I got some shrapnel already. Did you want to give this a try?"

I shut my mouth at his retort and focus on keeping Tris steady. Her watery eyes remain shut, and I am thankful that she can't see the unease written deep into my face.

"You can do this," I encourage her.

She doesn't seem to think so. In the incoherent gibberish she lets out, I am able to make out something about her needing to vomit.

"Breathe," I advise. It is so foolish to expect even that of her, but I don't know how else to help.

Her hyperventilating decreases for a moment. That is, until Caleb prods at her wound again. Within the screaming, I hear him ask Susan for more tools, and even more than Tris I want this to end.

"Okay, turn her over," Caleb says.

Marcus helps me maneuver her onto her side. Suddenly I am glad I have her arms to hold because I don't know how he will be able to control her legs from this angle.

Tris's screeching is somehow more unbearable now. She sobs in between brief pauses and tears her throat raw when Caleb rips out each metal fragment.

"Stop!" she eventually shouts. "Stop! Stop!"

At this point I want to break down and cry with her. Today has been hell, and watching this transpire is one of the most appalling things I have had to witness. As her nails dig into my hand, I can't help but pray please God, let me take this pain from her.

Marcus, of course, contains no sympathy. In fact, he is bothered by this ordeal and more concerned with saving his own skin. It is evident when he snaps, "Be quiet, Beatrice!"

With every ounce of rage left in me, I stand straight and point at him. "You shut the fuck up!" I shout over Tris.

He glares murderously at me, and I know that look—if it were a few years ago, I wouldn't be able to walk the next morning. But I give it right back to him. He can hurt me as many times as he manages to, but nobody crosses this line with me.

Susan is stunned by my outburst, more so than when I pointed my gun at her earlier. Even Tris quiets down to whines. Caleb barely glimpses over at me. "He's right, Four," he explains calmly. "Not only is it distracting for me, but I am surprised this whole faction hasn't heard her by now. We can't let anyone know that you two are here."

He has a point. Begrudgingly, I look around for something she can bite down on. Susan tentatively hands me a cloth, and I take it graciously with a nod.

Tris doesn't seem to notice when I slide the fabric into her mouth. The world is slipping away again for her because of the agony, and it is ironic that I would want her to pass out. It is unfortunate that she hasn't yet.

"We're getting there," I tell her, brushing a stray lock of hair away from her sweating face. She blindly reaches out for my hand again, and I offer it to her.

Eventually Caleb works out every visible piece of shrapnel from the bullet. Tris falls into a pattern of grunting into the cloth, and it seems to take an edge off of the affliction. Then we move onto the stitching, which is audibly dreadful in the beginning but progressively gets to be less grueling.

When it is all finished, she is patched up, bandaged, and fast asleep on the table. There is still blood staining the wood though, serving as a reminder of how the last hour dragged.

My ears ring despite my attempts to pop them, and my hands are crimson. I would wash them, but right now I can barely keep my eyelids peeled open. Besides, it is nice to finally have some sort of rest, even if it is just standing here and watching Tris's chest rise and fall peacefully.

We all share a deep breath.

For a moment, the madness has ended.

The fire is one of few sources of light in the house. The glow it emits against the gray walls is eerie yet comfortable, and it pulls me toward sleep with each passing second. I only ever spent nights like this with my mother, but those were rare and fleeting, lacking any calm since we lived in a house where all we knew was fear.

It is odd to feel tranquil in an Abnegation house as a whole. It certainly makes no sense with my father a room away, with a sharp migraine stemming from the wound in my head, with Tris progressing towards a fever.

Caleb may have saved her from the pressing damages, but he warned me that the real danger lies in an unseen killer: an infection. Some kind of pathogen was undoubtedly introduced when I put pressure on the wound, or when the makeshift surgery was done. And without antibiotics on hand, the odds are not looking up for her.

She hasn't begun showing definite signs yet—it would be impossible to distinguish them from symptoms of the surgery, anyway. Until then, we have to count on some Abnegation returning from the factionless with any remaining medicine within the next few days. Which is unlikely.

Tris's placid face twists into an agonized one as she stirs on the couch. I sit up straighter from my place next to her on the floor and watch to see if she is indeed waking up.

"-bias," she mumbles.

"I'm right here," I say, removing the cool cloth from her forehead. I press my hand to her skin and find that it is still warm.

A strangled whimper sounds when she tries to move, and I stop her immediately. "Don't."

Her eyes flutter open and drift over to me. The silver is more accentuated in them, though they are foggy.

"Water," she begs.

I shake my head. "I don't want you to hurt yourself sitting up."

But it is clear that she is parched. And she must be starving too, considering we never ended up eating dinner before leaving Candor.

I sigh helplessly when I see the insistence in her eyes. "Caleb did say that you should eat when you woke up," I waver, glancing over at the bowl of soup on the small table next to the couch. He had made it for himself and Susan before being interrupted; now he ended up sharing it with Tris and Marcus as well.

Listening closely, I briefly wonder what they are discussing at the dinner table. But I can't make out any words in their low murmuring.

Tris lets me take most of her weight as we both guide her into an inclined position. For a moment I think she is fine until I see the silent tears on her face, trailing down to her grimace. I know it must hurt to cry, but I hope she knows that she can break down if she wants to.

"Tris," I whisper, wiping her cheeks for her.

Her fingers dig into the woven blanket laying over her until the immediate pain subsides. A long, exasperated breath leaves her chest. It is awful to have to watch her deal with this aftermath alone.

"I'm sorry."

I watch her eyes flick up to mine incredulously. I can read that look: she doesn't think any of this is my fault. But I need to sympathize with her, and I don't know how else to do it other than taking the blame upon myself.

"I'm sorry you had to shoot someone for my sake. I'm sorry for not reacting quickly enough to protect you." I swallow past the lump in my throat. "I'm sorry for getting you involved in any of this in the first place, otherwise we wouldn't have ended up in Candor and you wouldn't have been a target. I'm sorry that it is my mother of all people who wants you dead."

She blinks at me tiredly and doesn't reply.

"All I've ever wanted is you. And I can't even manage to keep you out of danger on a daily basis," I say. "It is my job to protect you, always, and I have failed again. I'm sorry."

That is what it comes down to. Tris is a girl—my girl. That makes her my responsibility. She may have persisted through the trauma that has made her who she is today, but to me that means she doesn't deserve to have any more misery.

She shouldn't have to deal with this anymore. She has paid her dues to this city.

"We could run away. Outside the fence."

My suggestion is met by a conflicted gaze.

"I know," I say softly, suddenly realizing how foolish the words were. "You wouldn't want to leave our friends, or your brother, or even Dauntless. I don't even know if I could. I am just saying that it is hard to let you force yourself into these situations when all I want to do is lock you somewhere away from the turmoil."

She closes her eyes.

"We may give up everything to fight for this city, but they aren't grateful. To them, we are rebels and traitors, more faces in the news. Why should we continue to put ourselves through heartache when all they do is throw themselves into more pointless death?"

More tears leave Tris's eyes. I caress them away.

"It isn't fair. You have done your part especially." I shake my head. "When does it end? Why don't you get to be happy?"

She has lost her parents, and briefly her brother. She shot her friend. She has played prisoner to bail people out of their own problems. Now, she suffers through post-traumatic stress disorder almost daily. How long is it going to go on like this for her?

I press my lips to her forehead when a sob bursts through her chest momentarily. "Shh, I didn't mean to upset you," I murmur, my eyebrows pulled taut. "I just want you to know that there is always that option. I would run away with you, if that is what you want."

Her wiry body trembles against mine. I slide my arm around her shoulders and press closer. "There is bravery in stepping away sometimes," I remind her.

"And life isn't just about being happy," she points out in a croak.

"I know."

The fire crackles to fill the silence. In the other room, Susan, Caleb, and Marcus have ceased their conversation.

"I want to give you everything, because I love you," I tell her, "and all I can offer is mayhem."

Her lip wobbles. "Tobias, I don't need anything but you."

I don't believe the words. In her most suicidal moments during wartime, I couldn't have treated her worse. Even when we weren't together, I managed to drag her down into a pit of desolation. And I am not going to pretend like I am not part of the reason for her cutting. If anything, I have been a hazard that she should steer clear from.

However, some part of me accepts her admission. Maybe it is because I am in an identical house to my childhood one, or because nobody has ever acknowledged my worth like that before. But it feels ethereal to know that someone views me that way, that she views me that way.

I don't know how to express what I am feeling. So I kiss her temple before resting my head against hers and holding her until the events of today slip away into some other war-torn world.