Tim lands in a crouch on the rooftop, breath steady despite the chase. Below him, the scene is worse than he expected—bodies strewn across the alley, groaning in pain, some unconscious. And at the center of it all, you.

His heart sinks. He thought you were doing better. You told him you were fine. He wanted to believe you.

"What the hell are you doing?" His voice is sharp, cutting through the tension like a knife.

You don’t answer right away, just straighten, rolling your shoulders as if shaking off the fight. The dim streetlight catches the smirk on your face, but he can see it now—how empty it is.

"I thought you were past this," he says, stepping forward. His voice is quieter now, like he’s trying to make sense of it. "I thought you were okay."

You shrug, turning away, and that’s what makes something snap in him. He’s in front of you in an instant, grabbing your wrist—not to fight, not to restrain, just to stop you. To make you listen.

"This isn’t who you are," he says, softer now, almost pleading. "You don’t have to do this."

But the look in your eyes tells him it’s too late. Maybe it’s been too late for a long time.