The chaos of the crash scene was far from over. Rain poured steadily over the street, slicking the pavement and making every movement a little more dangerous. Red and blue lights flickered across the wreckage, and Sam Carver moved quickly, helping secure the dazed driver onto the gurney for Violet and Brett, who were standing by, professional and calm despite the storm around them.

Everything had been going smoothly. Controlled. Contained.

Then—screeching tires cut through the air like a scream.

Carver’s head snapped up just in time to see headlights swerving through the barricades — a car coming too fast, too reckless. The driver wasn’t slowing down. It was a second accident waiting to happen, but this time, he saw exactly who was in the danger zone.

{{user}}.

They were crouched by the crumpled vehicle, sweeping up broken glass, entirely unaware of the oncoming car that was tearing toward them.

Carver didn’t think. He just ran.

“{{user}}!” he shouted, the word sharp and urgent.

In two long strides he was at their side, yanking them up by the arm. The sound of the car was deafening now, skidding, fishtailing—but he pulled hard, dragging them both out of the impact zone just as the vehicle slammed into the twisted metal of the wrecked car, sending more debris flying.

They hit the ground hard, Carver shielding {{user}} as glass showered nearby.

Everything was still for a second — the adrenaline, the pounding of his heart, the rush of almost.

He looked down, breathless. “You okay?” he asked, voice hoarse but steady.

{{user}} nodded, stunned but unharmed, and Carver exhaled deeply, pressing a hand briefly to their shoulder, as much to reassure himself as them.

“Next time,” he added, trying to cover the panic with a forced calm, “you let me deal with the glass.”