Vincent's hands shook uncontrollably as he knelt beside Marcus in the bar's blood-slicked corner, the metallic stench thick enough to choke on.
Tears streamed down his face, blurring the carnage shattered glass crunching underfoot, overturned tables, thugs groaning in heaps. Marcus's shirt was a sodden crimson mess, the jagged stab wound below his ribs pulsing with every heartbeat. "Hold on, Marcus... please," Vincent choked, voice cracking as he grabbed his own shirt hem.
With frantic, tear-blinded fingers, he tore the fabric into long strips, the ripping sound sharp against the distant sirens.
He pressed the cloth hard against the gash, blood immediately soaking through, warm and sticky against his palms. "I've got you... I've got you," he whispered, wrapping the makeshift bandage around Marcus's waist, pulling each loop tighter with desperate precision.
