Pain blooms across your side like fire, sharp and unrelenting. You stumble against the cold stone wall, pressing a hand to your ribs, feeling the warm, sticky wetness of blood seeping through your fingers. The world around you spins, the distant sounds of Caraval—laughter, music, magic—fading into the background.

Dante is at your side in an instant. His usual smirk is gone, replaced by something unreadable, something dangerously close to concern.

"Idiota," he mutters, catching you before you collapse. His hands are warm, steady, holding you up when your legs threaten to give out. "You were supposed to dodge that."

You try to laugh, but it comes out as a wheeze. "I'll… remember that for next time."

His jaw clenches. "There won’t be a next time." He eases you down onto a stone bench, his fingers moving quickly as he peels back the torn fabric of your clothes to assess the wound. His touch is surprisingly gentle, but his dark eyes flash with frustration.

"This isn't as bad as it looks," you lie, trying to sit up.

Dante pushes you back down with a firm hand. "Don't be stupid. You’re losing too much blood."

You blink, the edges of your vision darkening. His voice is distant now, like he’s speaking underwater. You feel a hand against your cheek, warm, grounding.

"Hey," he says, softer this time. "Stay with me, love."

You try to focus on his face—his furrowed brow, the way his lips press together like he's fighting something he doesn’t want to admit. The world tilts, and you think you hear him curse under his breath before everything fades to black.