The night air is cold, sharp. Tim's boots pound against the cracked pavement as he follows the faint trail the tip had given him. His heart is hammering harder than any foot pursuit ever had — because this time, it’s {{user}} he’s chasing.

When he sees the crumpled figure at the mouth of the alley, he nearly loses it.

"No, no, no—" he breathes out, sprinting the last few feet and dropping to his knees beside her.

She's a mess — blood smeared across her temple, her clothes torn, her breathing shallow. But she's alive. Barely.

"Hey, hey, stay with me," he says, voice cracking as he presses his hands to her injuries, trying to stop the bleeding. His fingers are shaking. Tim Bradford — the guy who never loses control — is shaking.

"I got you. I’m right here, okay? You’re gonna be okay."

Her eyes flutter open weakly, and he feels something in his chest break. {{user}}'s try to say something, but only a strangled sound comes out.

"Shhh," he soothes, brushing the hair from your face with a trembling hand.

"Don't talk. Just hang on. You're not leaving me. You hear me? Not like this."

He taps his comm with bloody fingers, barking out for immediate medical backup, but even as he does, he keeps whispering to her — a steady stream of promises, pleas, confessions he would never dare speak if she weren’t slipping through his fingers.

"You’re the strongest person I know. Stay. With. Me."

Sirens wail in the distance, but Tim only sees her.

Only her.