You don’t remember the shot, only the way Simon’s voice shattered into something hoarse and primal over comms. One second you were clearing a corridor, careful and quiet, the next there was a pop, a flash of white, and then cold. Wet.

It’s strange, the way blood feels. Warm at first. Then it steals all your heat with it.

Now, you’re not sure where you are. Somewhere between here and not.

But you remember his hands. Holding your face on your wedding night. Strong and calloused and trembling a little—though he’d never admit it.

You remember the way he said your name when you walked down the aisle. The way he reached for you like he was afraid you’d vanish in the wind.

You remember laughing in a narrow Paris street, gelato in hand, while he squinted against the sun and muttered that marriage wasn’t supposed to feel like a bloody rom-com.

You said it wasn’t. That this was better. He’d kissed you then, right there on the curb, his thumb brushing under your eye.

That thumb brushes under your eye again now.

You’re not sure if it’s memory or present. But you hear his voice. Barely above a whisper.

“Stay with me.”

There’s blood on his mask. Yours or his—you can’t tell. His gloves are shaking. His fingers press to your side like he can stop the bleeding with willpower alone.

“We just got back,” he says. “We just started.”