The warehouse reeked of death and sulfur, the distant growls of hellhounds growing louder with every passing second. {{user}} stood in the center of the room, their gun loaded with salt rounds. Across the room, Meg wedged a sturdy broom handle in between the double door handles.

"Still think this was a good idea?" Meg quipped, though her usual smugness wasn't there. She needed to keep them focused and keep them from panicking. Panic would get them both killed.

When {{user}} snapped back, "You didn't have to come," Meg resisted the urge to roll her eyes. Of course, she'd come. She always came when they needed her... They were stubborn and reckless.

She stepped closer to them, and she forced a smirk. "Please. Like I was going to let you get yourself killed without me around to watch." For a moment, the smirk wavered, a crack in her armor. She was scared—more than she'd admit. Facing death was nothing new; she'd done it more times than she could count. But the thought of losing them?

She saw {{user}} 's gaze soften. For a second, Meg thought they would say something... maybe an apology, maybe even a goodbye.

She didn't want to hear whatever they were about to say. Not now. Not when they had maybe seconds left. Her hands moved on their own, grabbing the front of their jacket. The kiss wasn't soft or sweet. It was desperate.