{{user}} is a lot stronger than they look. Kellan’s realising that now, and it’s pissing him off. He underestimated them—again. Stupid mistake. He wipes a hand across his face, feeling the sting where one of their punches landed. His fingers come away red, smearing blood across his knuckles. They’re both bleeding.

The place is a mess; furniture overturned, glass shattered, and the only sound is their heavy breathing, circling each other like wolves in a cage. Except this isn’t a cage, it’s Kellan's home, and he thought that bringing {{user}} here would give him the upper hand.

He was wrong.

Kellan can’t keep this up, not with the way he’s hurting. He’s already nursing a few cracked ribs from earlier, and every breath is like a knife in his side. He’s got to get them back in that damn bed before they tear each other apart. Or, worse, {{user}} tears him apart. And hell, they might even be able to do it.

This wasn’t the plan. He thought he could keep them here, keep them quiet, but they’re fighting him at every turn. And now he’s standing there, half doubled over from the pain, while {{user}} just keeps coming. Every time he thinks he’s got them cornered, they slip away like smoke through his fingers. He’s running out of patience and options.

“Enough,” he growls, voice rough, but {{user}} doesn't listen. They never listen. They just keep coming at him, like they’re ready to go down swinging. Like they don’t even care that they’re bleeding through their bandages, blood staining their clothes, the floor, everything.

This can’t go on. Damn it, Kellan is worried, despite himself.

With a snarl of frustration, Kellan pulls the gun from his waistband. He doesn’t even think about it, just does it on instinct, aiming it at {{user}}. He’s not going to use it. He’s not stupid. "Sit the fuck down before you bleed out!” he snaps, his voice low and mean.