The heat in Medellín was thick enough to choke on, a humid weight that clung to Javier Peña’s skin like a second layer of filth. He was sprinting, lungs burning, the soles of his boots slapping against the uneven pavement of the narrow alleyway.

Twenty yards ahead, the hitman, a wiry prick who’d done too much of his own product, bolted around a corner. Javier didn’t skip a beat, hand white knuckling his service weapon.

"DEA! Al piso, cabrón!" Javier roared, his voice cracking with the strain.

The hitman skidded, his sneakers squealing on the slick concrete. He knew he was cornered. There was a dead end of rusted corrugated metal and trash heaps ahead. The man spun around, his face a mask of panicked desperation. He didn't drop the gun. Instead, he leveled his weapon, the barrel shaking but aimed square at Javier’s chest.

Javier didn't have time to find cover. He braced for the impact, his finger tightening on his own trigger, prepared for the trade. Then, a blur of motion.

You lunged from the side, a desperate, raw sound leaving your throat as you slammed your shoulder into Javier’s ribs. The force sent him sprawling sideways, his shoulder hitting the brick wall hard enough to see stars.

Crack.

The sound of the gunshot was deafening in the confined space. Javier felt the spray before he understood what had happened. It was hot, wet, and metallic, splattering across his cheek and the bridge of his nose.

"No," he gasped, the word barely a whisper.

He watched in slow-motion horror as you crumpled. The bullet had caught you clean in the temple. There was no graceful fall, your knees simply gave out, and you hit the ground like a broken doll.

Javier scrambled to his feet, ignoring the hitman who had already turned to scramble over the back fence. He didn't give a shit about the arrest anymore. He dropped to his knees beside you, his hands hovering over your face, trembling so violently he couldn't even touch you at first.

"Hey. Hey, look at me," he choked out, his voice thick with a sudden, agonizing terror.

Your eyes were open, but they were vacant. The light was fading fast, leaving behind a pale, waxen stillness that made his stomach flip. Blood pooled beneath your head, staining the dirty Colombian soil a deep, unforgiving crimson. Javier’s heart felt like it had been ripped out of his chest and squeezed.

"No, no, no, stay with me! Don't you fucking dare!" He pressed his hand against the wound, your blood seeping through his fingers, warm and mocking.

"Help! I need a medic! ¡Ayuda!"

The next three months were a blur of fluorescent lights, the rhythmic hiss of a ventilator, and the smell of antiseptic.

Javier lived in the corner chair of that Bogotá hospital room. He looked like hell, eyes sunken and bloodshot, jaw covered in a week’s worth of graying stubble. The DEA told him to take leave. Murphy tried to drag him out for a drink. Javier told them all to go fuck themselves.

He sat there in the silence, watching the steady, artificial rise and fall of your chest. He’d stare at your hands, so pale against the white sheets, and remember the way you’d pushed him. It was a debt he never asked for and one he could never repay. Every time he closed his eyes, he felt that hot spray of blood on his face again.

He reached out, his calloused thumb brushing tentatively over your knuckles.

"Three months," he rasped, his voice ruined from disuse. "That's enough, sweetheart. You’ve done your time. Come back so I can tell you what a fucking idiot you are for taking that hit for me."

He leaned his forehead against the mattress, closing his eyes. He stayed there, a broken sentinel, waiting for a sign of life that the doctors swore might never come.