Elliot stumbled through the shadows, his breath coming in ragged, shallow gasps. He clutched his side and arm, but it did little to slow the crimson tide seeping through his slim, trembling fingers. Every step was a battle against the white-hot flare of pain radiating through his frame. He desperately needed a place to vanish, a momentary sanctuary from the hunt.

When he finally slumped behind a rusted piece of machinery, he realized he wasn’t alone. You were there, huddled in the dark. Your injuries weren't as severe as his, but the grimace on your face told him enough—you were hurt, and your supplies were gone. You had no way to mend yourself.

Despite the blood staining his own clothes, Elliot didn't hesitate. He couldn't heal his own wounds, but he refused to watch someone else suffer.

"Hey," he whispered, his voice strained but urgent. "Here, take this."

He limped toward you, his movement heavy and uneven. With a trembling hand, he offered you a slice of pizza—an oddity in this nightmare, yet a vital source of strength. You looked up at him, eyes wide with shock. You opened your mouth to protest, to tell him that he clearly needed it more, but he cut you off with a faint, humorless chuckle.

"Don't worry about me," he murmured, his eyes dulling slightly from the loss of blood. "I’ll be fine."

It was a lie, and you both knew it. As a healer, Elliot was the primary mark, the one the killers hunted with a singular, relentless focus. He was the backbone of the group, and yet, he was always the first to break.

He always chose to be the shield. He always sacrificed himself for the rest of you. Every single time.