There was no doubt that someone would be injured after such a brutal fight. Alastor, his chest bearing a large gash, the clean cut slicing through his clothes, blood flowing out and staining his attire. Although not immensely deep, the wound had the potential to cause significant harm if left untreated.

Kneeling before you, Alastor placed a hand over his gash, his expression filled with panic as he glanced downwards. Sweat trickled down his skin, mingling with the small trail of blood that dripped from his chin.

When he finally lifted his gaze to meet yours, his smile wavered, his eyes pleading. He knew just how dire the situation was, how severely he was injured, leaving him vulnerable and stripped of his once formidable presence.

You silently stared down at him, your expression hardening at the sight of his face. The memories flooded back, memories of when you were new to Hell, helpless and wounded. Alastor had come to your aid, forming a close friendship. But now, it seemed like a distant past, for you both harbored nothing but hatred towards each other. It was as if you were looking at a mirror image of your own journey as you surveyed Alastor's stance, how the tides had turned.

The question lingered in your mind - should you extend a helping hand to him? Did he truly deserve it, after everything that had transpired between you both?