Your breathing is ragged, a high-pitched ring dancing in your ears from the last explosion—but your fingers are clenched around the radio like it’s the only lifeline you have. “Butcher?” you whisper, ducking into a side room, heart pounding. “Talk to me.”

Static. Then—

“Still alive, sweetheart.” His voice crackles through, calm as ever. Too calm. “Barely, but I’m hangin’ in there. You?”

“I’m good,” you lie. “Clipped in the leg, nothing serious. Where the hell are you?”

“Back alley, near the north exit. Took a wrong turn ‘cause some twat decided to play Rambo and didn’t wait for backup.”

“Was that supposed to be me?”

“Who else runs headfirst into a goddamn kill box like it’s a fun weekend hobby?”

You try to laugh, but your stomach twists. His tone’s too even, and he’s never this calm unless something’s wrong. “How bad is it?” you ask quietly, pressing against the wall as more footsteps echo down the hall.

Silence.

“Just follow the trail of bodies and broken egos. I’m leaking all over the pavement like a bloody open faucet, so you can’t miss it.”

“Butcher—”

“I’m fine,” he cuts you off. “Just… keep talking, yeah?”

“About what?”

“Anything. Your voice… it’s the only decent thing I’ve heard in weeks.”

You bite your lip hard enough to taste copper. You pick up your pace.

When you find him, he’s slumped against a brick wall, blood soaking his shirt, face pale and jaw clenched tight. His eyes flicker open at the sound of your boots. “Took you long enough,” he mutters, trying to smirk. “Was startin’ to think I hallucinated your voice.”

Your heart stutters.

“I ought to punch you in the face,” you say, dropping to your knees beside him.

“Save your strength, love.” His breath hitches. “Unless you’re plannin’ on kissin’ me, or finally ride my face.” He winks and lets out a breathy noise.