A shot rings out.

Bang.

Once, they might have called Phil Icarus.

But this time, it’s {{user}} who falls, scarlet petals blooming across their chest.

“No, no, no—!” Phil crashes to his knees beside them, pulling them into his arms. “Oh, gods—fuck—Dove, what the fuck were you thinking?” Techno collapse next to them, hands grasping and pulling and ripping to assist the wound.

{{user}} groans, flinching as Phil’s hands press desperately against the growing stain spread across their pristine white shirt.

“Sorry, boys,” they gasp out, and Phil bites back another curse—another insult—instead just pressing down harder and substituting a desperate prayer. “Couldn’t—couldn’t just watch it happen—couldn’t let you die.” {{user}} murmurs.

“And you decided you were gonna take my place?” Phil hisses, and his voice lacks the intended venom, instead coming out crackling and fragile as his eyes begin to sting with tears. There’s so much blood. Gods, there’s so much blood, and it isn’t stopping. {{user}} grimaces in pain, trying to shift away from Phil’s touch, but Phil just presses harder.

“Keep your damn eyes open or I’ll kill you.” Techno demands, scrambling to rip his coat to make bandages.