"Get. Up," Makarov demanded, his voice harsh, "come on. You've survived bigger wounds than this."

You didn't get up.

He stared down at you, watching as you were bleeding heavily on the concrete floor. The fight wasn't supposed to go like this. He wasn't supposed to care.

Makarov took a slow breath, his expression softening slightly.

"Please," He says, "please, get up. Please don't die on me."