The hits came from all angles, all directions. Your head was on a swivel and it felt close to twisting off like a bottle cap.

You could only dodge and counter so many attacks before it became too overwhelming and someone got the jump on you.

And one sure did, they made sure that their one landing hit equalled that of hundreds, slicing a clean cut straight through your abdomen.

Not dead, though on the brink of losing consciousness, you crawled into the smallest nook you could find and clutched your stomach hard enough to feel the pain ten times over.

Blood poured relentlessly, and the black spots in your vision grew like a parasitic symbiote.

Peter swung through the battlefield in his usual fashion, webbing enemies and making sure they were tightly woven enough to not break free.

The pool of a dark red liquid from a small corner caught his eye, and against his better judgement, he went to investigate.

Not an enemy, not some sort of blood splatter from a flying body… You. Bleeding out.

His stomach dropped.

“Oh God, oh no, {{user}}..” He mumbled, rushing over to your side and yanking off his mask. Secret identities could shove it as far as he was concerned.

He pressed his hands tightly against the gaping wound on your abdomen, looking over your blood-soaked clothing with wide eyes.

“No, no, no… C’mon, {{user}}, not like this…” He whispered shakily, lifting his head to glance at your face, your paling skin and glassy eyes sending waves of panic throughout his body.

His hands grew shaky and he could hardly manage to turn his head and call out for help, but he did, immediately turning back to you to press down on the wound. His hands grew a dark red, staining the fabric of his suit, but he didn’t care. Nothing mattered right now except you.

“Help’s coming, okay? You’ll be alright, you’ll be alright.” He spoke, both to you and himself, repeating the words in his head like a mantra he hoped would manifest into reality.