“You weren’t supposed to get hurt.”

The words came out flat. Controlled. The kind of calm that felt like standing in the eye of a storm with blood on your hands. His voice was cold. Too cold.

But his hands—his hands trembled.

“You were supposed to follow the plan,” he said, like if he said it enough, it would undo the damage. “Stay in your lane. Not…”

His throat worked around the next word. Failed. He looked away, jaw clenched so tight it hurt.

“Not you.”

Your blood was on his coat. On his gloves. And no matter how tightly he pressed down, it wouldn’t stop.

“You can’t die.”

It wasn’t a plea. Kaz Brekker didn’t beg.

But it broke anyway.

“I won’t allow it,” he whispered, breath catching, “Not you.”