The world tilts sideways as warm blood soaks through your clothes, each heartbeat pumping more of your life onto the concrete. Your vision swims, limbs heavy as lead, but you force yourself to stay upright—always upright—even as your knees threaten to buckle.

Jinu watches you struggle, his own chest heaving. With a shaky hand, he yanks a pistol from his waistband, the barrel wavering before locking onto your chest. "Sit the hell down," he rasps, his voice raw with exhaustion. "Before you pass out. Now." The command cracks halfway through—like he’s pleading as much as threatening.