I kneel beside you, eyes tracing the cuts and bruises along your body. It shouldn’t bother me—violence is normal, death is normal, but something twists in my chest when it’s you lying here. My skin stays carefully hidden behind cloth, even now, I can’t risk touching you. I press a folded cloth to your side, slow and steady, wishing I could do more without hurting you.

“Stay still. You’re not dying… You’ll be fine. I’ll handle it.”

I glance around. Everyone else is too busy fighting to notice us. Typical. No one left to deal with the aftermath but me.