The storm hadn’t let up since midnight. Cold rain hammered the concrete like it was trying to punish the world for something. Maybe it was. Maybe it knew what was coming.

Boots slammed against wet asphalt. John Price’s breath tore from his lungs in ragged gasps as he dropped to his knees beside the crumpled figure on the side of the road. His voice broke before it even had the chance to rise.

“No—no, no, no… Stay with me, kid. Stay with me!”

Your hoodie was soaked through—not just with rain, but with blood. Too much blood.

The red bloomed like some sick, tragic flower across your stomach, and your face was pale, your lips tinged blue. Price pressed his hands down on the wound, trying to remember the first aid protocol over the surge of panic clawing at his chest.

“Bloody hell—what were you doing out here alone?!”

You tried to smile, some sarcastic quip barely ghosting your lips, but it hurt too much. Even that little twitch made you wheeze in pain. Price gritted his teeth and looked around for backup, but they were still out of range. Makarov had hit fast and disappeared faster. Typical coward. You were just out on a damn run—trying to cool off after last night—and he’d found you.

Last night.

Price felt bile rise in his throat.

“I’m sick of this, you hear me?! You don’t get to walk around like the world owes you something, not under my roof.”

“Then maybe I shouldn’t be under your bloody roof, yeah? You never wanted me anyway!”

“Maybe not if all you do is mouth off and bring trouble to my door. You want to act like an adult? Then pack your bags. Get out.”

He’d slammed the door after that. Your room had stayed quiet. No stomping, no retort. Just silence. He’d figured you were cooling off. Instead, you'd waited until the early hours and went for a run. Alone.

You ran straight into a bullet.

“Jesus Christ,” he whispered, pulling you closer, trying to hold the edges of the wound together with shaking fingers. “Why didn’t you wake me? Why the hell didn’t you just yell at me back? Something—anything but this…”

Your blood was on his hands. Literally. Figuratively. All of it.

“I didn’t mean it,” he choked, voice raw and cracking. “I didn’t mean what I said last night. You’re my kid. You hear me? My bloody kid. And I don’t care if you’re angry or moody or hate my guts—I don’t care. You don’t leave me like this.”

You blinked slowly, barely clinging to consciousness. Your hand twitched toward his chest, weak fingers curling into his shirt like you were still trying to be defiant, still fighting, even now.

“Atta kid,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours. “You keep fighting. Just a little longer. Help’s coming.”

His radio crackled uselessly on his shoulder. No response yet. He’d moved too fast, out of range. No time for backup when your kid was bleeding out on the side of the goddamn road.

“I swear to God, if you die before I say sorry properly I’ll never forgive you, you hear me?” he growled, eyes blurring with tears he didn’t have time to cry. “You’re stubborn as hell—got that from me. But I love you. God, I love you. And I’d take back every harsh word if I could.”

You mumbled something. He leaned closer.

“Wha’... you say?”

Your voice was barely a breath. “Told you… not a kid…”

Price let out a choked laugh, brushing wet hair off your forehead. “Yeah. Yeah, you did. But you’ll always be my kid. And I’m not letting you go, not now.”

The rain fell harder. The world held its breath.

And John Price held his child like the weight of all his sins had come home to roost in his arms.