"Stop crying," he says, his tone never diverging from its even pitch and volume. The arm is the most difficult to manage, sagging with an unnerving stillness at Asadi's side as he pulls it over the uneven slope of his shoulders. The motion elicits more pain than is natural or expected and he buckles momentarily, but adjusts for the aching pulses in his abdomen and shoulder immediately and accordingly.

"I've got her," he confirms, teeth gritted against the drag of what amounts to a complete dead weight against him, but his grip is unrelenting and he does not let her drop. He meets Greta's eyes unwaveringly, his measured composure a nearly transparent veneer over the locked blaze of something flinted and savage and resolute. "We have to go."