The voice was impossibly close—over your shoulder, maybe—but your ears were ringing too loudly to track it. Footsteps. Fast. You hadn’t even heard him land.

A hand pressed against the wound, and the pressure sent a new wave of fire through your ribs. The man above you materialized out of the dark like he’d been poured from it. Eraserhead. His capture scarf was already half-unspooled, its coils floating at the edges of your vision like smoke.

His voice was low, rough, but not as steady as usual. His face was set in that familiar scowl, but there was something else behind it—his eyes kept flicking from your face to the blood on his palm.

The sirens were closer now. Eraserhead’s jaw tightened. He didn’t look toward them.