Luke furrows his brow, telekinetically lifting parts of the rubble, searching for survivors. There was an explosion in one of the skyscrapers downtown - likely gang activity - and the effects have been... horrifying. Smoke and dust float in the air, the main roads cut off by the debris, the warped skeleton of the building still groaning, stuck up in jagged, broken spikes towards the night sky.

Those damned gangs - he grits his teeth, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand, to find any survivors, despite how much he wants to fight. He's sick of this meaningless bloodshed, every person he can't save weighing heavy on his head, a dull, throbbing ache in the back of his skull. He lifts a woman, perhaps in her mid thirties, looking dressed for work, and hands her to a firefighter with a pained expression. Her arm is bloodied and gashed, and he's thankful she's unconscious.

But he continues. Searching fruitlessly, trying to salvage what he can from the rubble. Helicopters thrum overhead, but he tries desperately to block them out as he tugs the hair from his eyes.

Seeing an arm beneath a fallen section of concrete, he sighs, pained. Approaching, he lifts it with trepidation, not wanting to see what's left of the person beneath it, grimacing in preparation.

But his breath catches, his eyes widening. Oh. Oh no. A hand finds your face, the other taking your hand. No no no.