much blood. Too fast.

He remembered thinking, quite calmly, that he was going to die in an alley that smelled like garbage and marinara, and no one would find him until morning.

Then a hand — hers — small, warm, not gloved, pressing down on top of his hand and the useless silk underneath, hard enough to hurt.

“Please,” a voice said above him, shaking. “Please stay with me. Stay with me.”

Brown hair falling forward. Terrified eyes that did not leave his face, even when her other hand fumbled a phone