Sitting on the ground, his back against the wall, hands clutching his chest, his white shirt was tainted with blood, and spreading more by each second.
"Jack! No!"
With a flash, Krace pressed on the gaping wound on Jack's chest, but the blood didn't stop. He instantly analysed the injury, finding the cause.
What type of injury?
The wound on the chest. From the gunshot.
Location?
Upper chest, slightly off-centre, not hitting the heart.
It's a Lung shot.
Symptom?
The victim is coughing up blood, struggling to breathe—a fatal sign if it's coming from deep in the lungs.
Diagnose?
Lung or major artery hit.
Krace continued to apply pressure, but the blood didn't stop.
He checked Jack's pulse, it was thready and weak.
'This is bad…too much blood in the chest. Dammit.'
Result?
The lung is collapsing, drowning the victim in their own blood. Even if the whole ER is here, he wouldn't make it. At best, he only has a couple of minutes before ….
3 signs will occur before he's gone.
1st Sign.
Jack's skin turned pale, lips blue. Circulatory failure.
"Jack, you don't have long… who did this? Any words?"
"M..a..t.t.." Jack croaked.
Krace, trying to help Jack, put more pressure on his wound, lifting his back against the wall, stopping the blood from filling his mouth.
"Stop talking, control your breath and stay with me. I'll call Matt. Listen to me, I've helped you stay conscious for a few minutes, but after that... I — I can't help you."
As Krace broke the bad news to James, Ben arrived. "Oh my god! Jack." Ben gasped. He rushed beside the lying man with a face full of worry. "Is he gonna be ok?"
"...he has a few minutes," Krace said solemnly.
Ben swallowed hard, his hands balling into fists.
"Ben, fetch Matt and call the ambulance."
Ben nodded and rushed away hurriedly.
The seconds that followed were agonising. James' body convulsed slightly. He gritted his teeth, eyes fluttering between open and shut. Krace adjusted his grip on the wound, pressing down to slow the bleeding. It wasn't enough.
Then—footsteps.
Ben returned, practically dragging Matt behind him. The boy stumbled slightly but kept up, confusion plastered across his face.
"Uncle Ben, what's the matter? Why are we running?" Matt's voice was laced with uncertainty.
He couldn't see James lying there, drenched in his own blood. He couldn't see the way Ben's face twisted in grief. But he could feel it, something wasn't right.
James exhaled sharply, as if forcing himself to stay conscious just a little longer. His fingers twitched again, barely lifting off the ground.
"Matt..." his voice was weaker this time.
Ben placed his hands on Matt's shoulders, steadying him. His throat tightened as he guided the boy forward.
"Jack needs you, Matt."
Matt took a shaky step forward, his head tilting slightly as he listened. The shallow breathing. The pained grunts. The tremor in the voices around him. Something was wrong.
Krace exhaled, watching as realisation dawned on the blind boy's face.
This was going to be the hardest conversation of Matt's life.
And James was running out of time.
Matt stopped moving.
His breathing quickened as he took in everything—the sound of ragged gasps, the scent of iron in the air, the way Uncle Ben's grip on his shoulders tightened just slightly, as if to steady himself.
Something inside him twisted.
"…Dad?" Matt's voice was small, uncertain.
James exhaled shakily, barely managing to lift his head. "Matty…" His voice was little more than a whisper, barely clinging to life.
Matt swallowed. "What's wrong? What's happening?"
No one answered at first. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
Then, Ben squeezed his shoulders.
"Jack is hurt, Matt." His voice was soft but strained.
Matt froze.
"Hurt?"
Krace spoke this time. "He doesn't have long, kid."
Matt's breath hitched. His heart pounded in his ears.
James was dying?
"No—" Matt shook his head, taking an uncertain step forward. His foot nearly brushed against James' outstretched fingers. "No, that's not—he's not—"
James let out a weak, broken chuckle. "Matty… come here, kid."
Matt dropped to his knees beside him, his hands frantically searching the space until they found James' trembling arm.
It was slick. Wet.
Matt's breath stuttered. Blood.
He felt James' muscles tense under his touch. Weak. Too weak.
This wasn't like when his dad came home bruised after a fight, or when he was hurt from doing labour jobs.
This was different.
"Dad," Matt whispered. "No, you're gonna be fine. We just need to—" He turned his head slightly, as if searching for someone, even though he couldn't see. "We just need to get help, right? We can get help—"
James' fingers gripped his hand.
2nd sign. Cold sweat, fading consciousness.
"Listen, Matty." James' voice wavered. "You gotta be strong for me, alright?"
Matt shook his head violently. His grip on James' arm tightened.
"No," he whispered. "No, no, no, don't say it like that. You don't—you don't have to talk like that."
His throat burned. Why was his throat burning?
James exhaled softly. Barely a breath.
"Matty, you're gonna be okay."
The words struck him like a punch to the chest.
Matt didn't realise he was crying until his voice cracked.
"Stop talking like that," he choked out. "You can't—you can't leave. PLEASEDAD! I don't have anybody…"
Jack's hand twitched against his own, his strength failing.
"Matty. Be brave…*chuckle* like me."
"Matty," his voice was almost gone.
"I'm sorry."
Matt shook his head again, frantically, like if he just denied it hard enough, it wouldn't happen.
But James' grip went limp.
His body stilled.
The shallow, uneven breathing… stopped.
3rd sign. Breathing slows to nothing.
Silence.
A hand—Uncle Ben's—wrapped around Matt's shoulders, steadying him. Keeping him from falling forward.
But Matt didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
Didn't understand.
The streets were just now filled with chatter.
But now…
Now there was only silence.
And Matt felt it the most.