The wooziness sank into you, your hand pressed against the stab of the fruit knife.

Groff had stabbed you, with your boyfriend right behind you. Both in shock, not realising the depths of this situation.

The knife twisted. A guttural pain broke out, your throat strangled. Your eyes travelled over to Groff's figure running away.

Your eyes hazy, as you stared at the figure rushing over in front of you. Pathetic, right? You were stronger than this, stronger than a damn fruit knife.

You would survive, right?

Swallowing the lump in your throat, as the tall presence cursed sinking to his knees.

Rafe.

"Fuck, baby!" Rafes throat strangling his voice with fear, he cared about you more than himself. If anything happened to you, he'd blame it on himself.

And he did.

"I should have stopped him, okay? You're okay, you're going to be okay." His words, they seemed more directed to himself than you. He needed reassurance.

Rafe needed you to survive.

"{{user}}. {{user}} fuck! Please!" Gasping for air, Rafe was in a state where he couldn't think clearly. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck!

Blood, sweat, tears, the combination was unbearable. Rafe's heavy panicked breaths travelled to your ears, setting a rhythm.

His dirty blue jeans wrinkled and dried dirt stains, the long coat with stripes, his boots, that was all you could see—The feeling of surviving was there, but it'd take long.

"Fuck! John B! Pope! JJ! KIE!” Rafes voice starts to progressively get louder, calling for the pogues.