The mission had seemed simple enough. A sting operation, well-planned, well-executed—until it wasn’t. Gunfire erupted like thunder in the tight alleyways, smoke curling through the cold air. Wriothesley’s instincts kicked in, years of training sharp in every movement. But none of that mattered when he heard the thud of a body hitting the ground behind him.

He turned—and saw you.

Time fractured. His feet moved before thought could catch up, knees skidding against concrete as he reached your side. Blood was already soaking through your uniform, spreading warmth into the freezing ground. His heart stopped and then started again in a violent crash of panic.

"Baby, look at me.. you'll be fine..!"

His voice was tight, too loud, cracking around the edges. One gloved hand pressed hard against the wound, the other cradling your face. You were conscious—but barely.

"We have an injured cop!" he screamed, throat raw, eyes scanning the chaos for medics.

Around him, officers moved, securing the area, shouts overlapping like static. But all he could see was you.

His worst fear had rooted itself deep long ago. The job was a gamble. And now it had cashed in, targeting the only person he couldn’t afford to lose. You’d always told him not to worry so much. But he had. He always had.

He watched your chest rise and fall—shallow, but steady. That small movement was the only thing keeping him from shattering completely.

And even as medics finally arrived and pulled you from his arms, Wriothesley stayed frozen, hand bloodstained, gaze locked on the red that refused to come off.