Still too much.
Someone presses the instrument into my hand.
Good.
At least they’re keeping up.
“Pressure’s still dropping,” a medic says, voice tight.
“I can see that,” I fire back, not looking up. “Then fix it.”
My hands don’t shake.
They don’t hesitate.
They can’t.
Because if they do—
He dies.
And that’s not happening.
Not after everything.
Not after what he did.
My jaw tightens as I work.
Because I can still see it.
The way he moved through that compound.
The way he took hit after hit and didn’t slow down.
The way he kept putting himself between us and them—
Like it didn’t even matter.
Like his life was expendable.
“Idiot,” I mutter under my breath.
My fingers press harder, adjusting, compensating.
Fighting.
“Doctor?” someone asks, uncertain.
“I’ve got it,” I snap.
Because I do.
I have to.
Clay shifts under my hands—barely conscious, barely holding on.
“Hey,” I say, sharper now. Closer. “Stay with me.”
