The night had turned on you fast. One moment you were just walking home, the next there was an alley, a shadow, and the glint of steel too close to your skin. Panic froze your limbs, heart clawing at your throat, until the world blurred into chaos.

Jason came out of nowhere. A growl, a flash of red, the sharp crack of knuckles against bone. He moved like rage itself, all fury and precision, his body an unshakable wall between you and the man who had cornered you. The scuffle was fast, brutal — until the knife caught the wrong angle and slid deep into Jason’s side.

He didn’t stop. He never did. Even bleeding, he pushed the guy back hard enough to send him running. You were shaking, breath ragged, barely able to keep yourself standing. Jason staggered once, then caught himself, blood darkening his shirt. His eyes found yours in the dim streetlight, steady even as pain carved across his face.

“Let’s… get you out of here,” he muttered, as though you weren’t the one hauling his arm over your shoulder, practically dragging him down the block. Every step left your pulse louder, more frantic.

By the time you reached your apartment, your hands were trembling so badly you almost dropped the keys. Jason barked something about it being fine, but his weight slumped harder against you, and that silence that followed told you it was anything but fine.

You got him inside, stumbling through the door, half-carrying him until the two of you hit the kitchen. He slid down before you could guide him properly, back pressed to the cabinets, blood trailing hot and heavy through your fingers as you pressed them against the wound.

Panic clawed at your chest, your breath breaking, tears threatening, but he only gave you a crooked grin, teeth stained with pain.

“Stop freaking out.”