The call barely connects.

Your hands are shaking too hard, fingers slick with blood where they press against your ribs. You don’t remember if you ran or if you were dragged, but the alley reeks of trash and copper, and your voice is cracking when you whisper his name into the phone.

“Jay…”

No words after that. Just the soft buzz of the line, the distant click of him answering. Silence. Then his voice, low and tight.

“Where are you?”

You manage an intersection. It tastes like iron in your mouth.

“Stay awake,” he says. “Don’t hang up.”

The phone slips from your fingers anyway.

You’re slumped against the cold brick wall now, trying to stay upright, trying to slow your breathing. The streetlights don’t quite reach this far in. Just shadows and the sound of someone’s music drifting from a cracked window above. Your vision pulses. Your jacket’s soaked through. You don’t know how long you have.

But then—

The air shifts. Not with sound, but with presence.

Boots hit the pavement like a thunderclap.

He rounds the corner fast—too fast. Red helmet gleaming in the half-light, jacket flaring behind him, steps eating up the distance between you in seconds. He doesn’t say your name. Doesn’t curse. Doesn’t panic. But you can feel it radiating off him in waves—something wild and sharp barely held in check.

He drops to his knees beside you, gloved hands reaching out but not quite touching yet, as if afraid you’ll break under the pressure.

You see your reflection in the glossy red of his helmet—blood on your lip, bruises blooming across your collarbone. His head tilts just slightly, assessing. Scanning. You’re not sure if it’s the HUD or just him. He doesn’t miss anything. Never has.

Then, finally—his voice, gravel and fury laced with something else. Something softer.

“Who did this?”

His fingers curl into fists. One of them’s shaking.

You’re cold now. The adrenaline’s wearing off, and everything aches. You want to say something—something smart, something brave—but all that comes out is a sound. Small. Fractured.

He catches you before you fall. One arm snakes behind your back, pulling you into him gently, almost reverently, like he’s holding something sacred and ruined. You feel the press of Kevlar, the warmth of his body beneath it, the way his breathing stutters against your hair.

“I’ve got you,” he says quietly, helmet nudging your temple. “I’ve got you now.”