The sound comes first, a single crack that tears through the night. You don’t register it until he’s already moving.

Alex’s arm slams into your chest, shoving you back behind cover just as the impact hits him. The force drives him down to one knee, breath catching in his throat. You see the bloom of red spreading across his shoulder, the shock tightening his jaw, but he still looks at you, steady, unflinching.

“Hey… hey, eyes on me,” he mutters, voice rough but even. He presses his hand over the wound, blood slipping through his fingers. “You good? Tell me you’re good.”

When you reach for him, he catches your wrist, firm but gentle. “Don’t,” he says softly. “Not yet. Just stay behind me.”

He drags in a sharp breath, shoulders squaring again. “It’s just a graze,” he lies, scanning the alley for movement, weapon still in his other hand.

You can hear your own heartbeat... fast, uneven, but his stays calm, solid, grounding.

Then, quieter, like he’s afraid you’ll hear the truth beneath his words:

“Wasn’t gonna let them touch you.”