Groff’s knife glints under the dim Moroccan streetlights, slick with blood—her blood. JJ watches, frozen, as {{user}}’s body jerks from the impact, the blade buried deep in her stomach before Chandler yanks it out.

No. No. No.

His brain short-circuits. His lungs refuse to work.

{{user}} stumbles, breath short and ragged, hands shaking as she presses on the wound. Blood seeps through her fingers, staining them red. She looks at him, wide-eyed, panicked—so panicked—like she’s trying to understand what just happened, like she’s waiting for him to fix it, because JJ always fixes things, right?

But he can’t fix this.

Her knees give out. He barely catches her before she collapses onto the uneven cobblestone street, cradling her against him as he lowers them both to the ground. His pulse roars in his ears, drowning out everything but her shallow, broken breaths.

"Hey, hey, easy. You’re okay. It’s just a—uh, a scratch, yeah? Barely anything. You’ve had worse." He swallows hard. "Remember that time you tripped on the stairs? You looked so dumb, babe, I—" His voice cracks. “You’re fine. You’re gonna be fine.”

She’s not fine.

She blinks up at him, eyes hazy, struggling to focus. He looks at her— she's too pale, she's fading, slipping, and JJ's chin won't fucking stop trembling. “Stay with me, alright? Keep those pretty eyes open. I need you, {{user}}. Please...”

Where the hell is John B? Where the hell is anyone?

A tear rolls down his cheek. “I love you,” he whispers, voice wrecked. “Please. Don’t leave me.”