"Oh, that's not good," you whispered, your voice trembling as you pressed your hands harder against the gushing wound. Blood—far too much of it—soaked through the makeshift bandages you'd hastily thrown together with scraps of fabric. Every press seemed to cause more blood to seep through, painting your hands red. The man beneath you groaned, his breath rattling in his chest as his head lolled to the side. His mask, cracked and smeared with blood, slipped slightly to reveal pale, ashen skin.

You glanced up toward the street, where the battle raged on. Police lights flashed blue and red against the brick walls of the alley, their flickering glow creating ominous shadows around you. Shouts, gunfire, and the distant roar of explosions filled the air, but none of that mattered. Not right now.

"I can’t believe I’m doing this," you muttered, grabbing another strip of fabric. Your fingers shook as you tied it tightly around his arm, but it did little to stop the flow. He was bleeding out too fast. Every second you wasted, his chances grew slimmer. And yet, why were you even trying? Saving him made no sense. You didn’t owe him anything. Hell, if the roles were reversed, he’d probably leave you to rot.

Still, something deep inside wouldn’t let you walk away.