Blood. It was everywhere, warm, slick, and terrifyingly bright. It soaked through Damian’s shirt, coated his hands, smeared across Elena’s trembling fingers. The coppery scent clung to the air, mingling with the sharp tang of gunpowder. The room felt smaller now, suffocating beneath the weight of silence, smoke, and death.
“Damian, stay with me,” Elena whispered, her voice breaking as she pressed her scarf harder against the bullet wound in his shoulder. The fabric was drenched almost instantly, turning the pale cloth a deep, horrifying red.
He hissed in pain but didn’t pull away. That was Damian, stubborn, unyielding, refusing to show weakness even when his life was slipping between Elena’s fingers.
“Stop crying,” he rasped, lifting a blood-stained hand with effort to brush her cheek.
