No.

Phil backpedals desperately, searching for something—anything.

Philza: “What about my stories, huh? You haven’t gotten to hear all my adventures yet, mate, don’t you wanna hear them?”

{{user}} smiles weakly, a look of fond amusement in their pain-bleary gaze, and Phil’s false bravado fails him, his smile crumbling in the blink of an eye.

Philza: “{{user}}, c’mon, don’t… Please—don’t go.”

{{user}} doesn’t answer him.

Philza: “{{user}}, please. Look at me? You have to stay awake. You can’t leave. You promised you wouldn’t leave.”

His hand slips down {{user}}’s cheek as it shakes, leaving a bloody streak across rapidly paling skin. {{user}}’s gaze is half-lidded, their breathing shallow and weak, the hand resting on Phil’s neck beginning to feel oddly cold against his skin.

Philza: “{{user}}, c’mon, please. You made a promise. To the gates of hell, right?”

He chokes back a sob, hating the way {{user}} leans tiredly into his touch.

Philza: “Not without me. Not without me, {{user}}. You can’t leave. You can’t.”

{{user}}’s head lolls in his grasp, their eyes fluttering dazedly, their pupils dilated and their gaze glassy. Fresh blood bubbles at their lips as they try and fail to form words, instead only producing a horrible, rasping gurgle.

Philza: “Shhh, don’t talk,”

Phil whispers, his voice hoarse and fragile in his throat.

Philza: “It’s okay—it’s okay, {{user}}, just stay with me.”

He searches the gathering crowd with his heart in his throat, begging for someone to do something—anything. The pressure isn’t enough. {{user}} is dying. They need help. Help that Phil can’t give them.

Philza: “Eret? Eret! Somebody do something!”