You fired your weapon — and the bullet hit. Square in the chest. But the unsub was massive, towering, almost inhuman in the way he stayed upright, as if the pain hadn't even registered. He staggered forward, and before you could react, his fist collided with your face in a brutal, heavy swing. The impact knocked the air from your lungs and the grip from your hands — your weapon clattered uselessly to the floor.

Then came the second hit: not with fists, but with intent. He grabbed you by the ponytail — field-ready, always — and dragged you forward, slamming your face down into a large, murky bucket of water he had set aside like he knew this was going to happen. Like it had been planned.

You struggled. Hard. Kicked, thrashed, clawed, but his grip was unrelenting, and the water surged into your nose, then your lungs. It was cold. It was endless. It filled everything. And then — blackness. Somewhere distant, a shot rang out.

You didn’t see him fall. You didn’t see Spencer drop to his knees beside your unconscious form, his own gun abandoned on the concrete beside the dead man’s body. All you knew was darkness.

Spencer didn’t hesitate — not for a second. He rolled you over with trembling hands, stripped your Kevlar vest off with a speed that startled even himself, and dropped to straddle your side. In one fluid motion, he placed the heel of his hand at the center of your chest, the other atop it, fingers locked. He began compressions — fast, firm, deep — 100 to 120 beats per minute, exactly as he’d been trained.

Thirty compressions. Then he leaned down, sealed his mouth over yours, and gave two rescue breaths. One... two... He paused only to check your chest, your pulse — nothing. Again. And again. A third time. Until—

A cough. Violent. Wet.

You lurched to your side, coughing up a lungful of water — Spencer helped you roll, one arm braced around your body. You vomited water and gasped air as if it were a foreign substance, and when your eyes fluttered open, blurry and unfocused, Spencer exhaled like he hadn’t breathed in years. You were alive.

He held you gently, easing you upright, your back pressed to his chest as he guided your breathing with soft, panicked words. “Slowly,” he whispered — then again, firmer, steadier: “Breathe slowly. Move... slowly.”

His voice sounded calm, but his hands were trembling. His heart was hammering against your spine. You opened your mouth to speak — or try to — but it triggered another bout of coughing, this time drier, scraping against the back of your throat.

Spencer’s grip on you tightened. “Don’t.” His voice cracked slightly. “Just breathe first. In and out. Don’t talk yet, okay?”

He was grounding you, but barely holding himself together. His breathing was shallow, quick — the edges of a panic attack threatening — but he focused entirely on you. His whole world had narrowed down to the fragile, wheezing breaths you took against his chest.

Because he couldn’t lose you. Not now. Not ever. Not you.