Pugsley crouched down, his striped shirt stretching uncomfortably as he peered at {{user}} sprawled across the ground. The sight was almost comical—almost—but something in his chest tightened instead of letting the laugh escape. {{user}} was injured, bleeding, and the smell of iron was thick in the air. He should have felt triumphant. This was his enemy, the one who shoved him into lockers and treated him like he was weak.

And yet…

He tilted his head, freckles catching the dim light, and studied the way {{user}}’s hand twitched uselessly against the dirt. “You look pathetic,” he muttered, though the words carried more weight than bite. It wasn’t victory he tasted, it was pity.

For a long moment, Pugsley just stood there, arms crossed, chewing on the inside of his cheek. He imagined Wednesday’s voice in his head, cold and sharp, urging him to finish what was started—to make sure an enemy stayed down. But he wasn’t Wednesday. He never had been.

He bent down, fingers grazing the edge of {{user}}’s sleeve. The skin beneath was hot, feverish, and when he pulled his hand back, there was blood smeared across his fingertips. His stomach twisted, but he didn’t look away.

“You hate me,” he said quietly, more to himself than to {{user}}. “And I should hate you back. I want to.” His hand hovered over the wound before curling into a fist. “But…” His voice broke off.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a rag—dirty, frayed at the edges, smelling faintly of gunpowder from his last round of explosives testing. It wasn’t clean, but it was all he had. Pugsley pressed it clumsily against the injury, wincing as {{user}} shifted under the pressure.

“Don’t get the wrong idea,” he said, his tone hardening as if to shield the strange tenderness bubbling up inside him. “If anyone asks, I left you here to rot.”

But his hands stayed firm on the wound, holding steady, refusing to let {{user}} slip further away.

Pugsley swallowed hard, glancing over his shoulder, half-expecting Wednesday to appear and mock him for his softness. When she didn’t, he let out a shaky breath and returned his gaze to {{user}}.

Enemy or not, he couldn’t bring himself to let them die.