They were almost home.

The rooftops blurred under their boots, city lights flickering as dusk settled over Musutafu like a tired exhale. Patrol had gone smooth—uneventful, even. Nothing but a few petty incidents, a lot of paperwork, and a quiet walk back across the skyline.

“Dinner’s still happening, right?” {{user}} called over their shoulder as they launched into a glide, arms loose, coat fluttering behind them.

Enji landed just behind with a low grunt. “If you’re paying.”

“I always pay.”

“You complain about it every time.”

“Yeah, but I do it with style.”

He didn’t smile. Not visibly. But his chest felt lighter than usual. The kind of easy rhythm they’d fallen into after too many nights doing this alone. He glanced up just as {{user}} leapt again—toward the agency building two rooftops away, boots catching moonlight.

That’s when it happened.

CRACK.

A clean shot—one Enji recognized too well.

The first bullet sliced through the air like a whisper, clipping {{user}}’s right shoulder. Not a kill shot, but deep enough to jerk their body midair. They flinched, twisting awkwardly, blood already spilling in a clean arc as they lost control of the landing.

They still got one foot down. Stumbled hard, dragging their boot across the gravel roof.

Then the second shot came.

CRACK.

Lower. Deadlier.

It punched into their ribs just above the hip—center mass—and kept going. But it didn’t exit. The bullet lodged deep, tearing through muscle, fracturing something. {{user}}'s chest seized, all air punched out in a violent gasp, arms slack.

They crumpled forward, and Enji moved—but not fast enough.

Their foot caught the roof’s edge.

Their knees hit.

Then their skull cracked against the concrete—hard.

The sound of it made something in Enji’s chest turn to ice.

He landed beside them a second later, gravel scattering beneath his boots. {{user}} lay in a broken sprawl, legs twisted under, one arm pinned awkwardly, the other twitching once—then still. Blood already spreading beneath them in a thick, dark pool.

He dropped to his knees.

“{{user}}.”

No answer.

Their eyes were half-lidded. Glazed. Their lips parted like they were still trying to speak—but nothing came. Blood foamed at the corner of their mouth.

The entry wound at their side was worse than he thought. Deep. Bleeding fast. But there was no exit. No clean-through.

That bullet was still in them.

He moved fast—gloved fingers pressing hard around the wound, trying to slow the bleeding. His fire sparked instinctively, but—

No.

He pulled back. He couldn’t cauterize. Not with a live round buried inside them. The heat would burn tissue, cook organs, maybe even push the bullet deeper. He needed it out first. This wasn’t battlefield patchwork. This was surgery.

“Stay with me,” he growled.

Nothing.

Their head lolled sideways. Blood had begun to mat their hair—crimson streaks crawling along their scalp, soaking down to the roots. Their skin had gone pale. Chest rising only shallowly now. The fall had knocked something loose. Concussion. Maybe worse.

His jaw clenched. He felt helpless—and he hated it.

He pressed two fingers to their neck.

Pulse: thready. Weak.

He had to move.

Enji scooped them into his arms, one behind their back, the other under their knees, keeping their torso tilted away from his chest to avoid pressure on the wound. Their body was slack. Head lolled against his collar. He could feel the heat draining from them.

One boot ignited—then the other.

And with a roar of flame and shattered rooftop debris, Endeavor launched skyward.

Smoke trailed in their wake. Wind screamed around them. Below, people looked up, pointing. But Enji didn’t see any of it.

He only saw the blood staining his coat.

{{user}} wasn’t moving.

He barked into his comms, voice low and lethal. “Code 7. I need a med-evac on agency roof. Bullet wound. Head trauma. Non-responsive.”

Two shots, seconds apart.

The first to stagger.

The second to kill.

someone had watched {{user}} fly, picked the perfect shot, waited until they were vulnerable for the shot.