The floor felt colder than it should have.
Or maybe he was just losing the ability to tell.
Ymir couldn’t decide which one was worse.
He stayed pressed against the back door, shoulder braced awkwardly into the wood, his body half-slumped where he had fallen after locking it. The impact still echoed faintly through him, a dull, spreading ache layered over something sharper, deeper—something that pulsed every time his heart beat.
Too fast.
Way too fast.
His hand was still clamped over his stomach.
It wasn’t doing enough.
He could feel it.
The blood kept coming, hot and slick under his palm, slipping between his fingers no matter how hard he pressed. It soaked into the fabric of his shirt, into his jeans, into the floor beneath him, spreading outward in a way he didn’t want to look at but couldn’t stop noticing.
Every breath dragged.
Shallow.
Uneven.
Like his lungs had forgotten how to fill properly.
“Okay,” he whispered.
The word barely made it out.
“Okay, okay…”
It didn’t mean anything.
Just something to say.
Something to hold onto while everything else slipped.
His head tipped back against the door.
The wood felt solid.
Real.
He focused on that for a second.
On the pressure of it against his skull.
On the faint vibration that came from the house settling around him—pipes, maybe, or something shifting upstairs.
Upstairs.
His stomach twisted harder than the wound itself.
Mira.
The thought didn’t come clean.
It came in fragments.
Broken pieces that didn’t fit together no matter how hard he tried to force them.
She ran into him.
She was shaking.
She said Kane—
No.
No, that wasn’t—
He squeezed his eyes shut, breath hitching hard enough to make the wound flare again, white-hot and immediate.
“Fuck—” he choked.
The memory came anyway.
Not all at once.
Just flashes.
Her face in his hands.
Tears.
The way she looked at him.
Then—
the smile.
His stomach lurched.
Not from the injury.
From the realization.
“That wasn’t—” he whispered, though there was no one there to hear it.
That wasn’t her.
But it was.
It had been.
The knife—
His breath broke again, shorter now, faster, his body struggling to keep up with itself.
“She—” He swallowed hard, throat dry and tight. “She stabbed me.”
Saying it didn’t help.
It just made it real in a way that hurt more than the wound.
He forced his eyes open again.
The kitchen swam slightly, edges soft and wrong, like everything had shifted just a little out of place. The counter looked farther away than it should have been. The table felt tilted even though it wasn’t. The light coming through the window had gone too bright, too flat, washing everything in a pale haze that made it harder to focus.
He needed—
He needed something.
Help.
Someone.
His hand slipped slightly against the wound, and he sucked in a sharp breath, tightening his grip instinctively.
“Stay—” he muttered, not even sure what he was telling to stay. “Stay, stay—”
His fingers felt weaker.
Not numb.
Just… slower.
Like they weren’t responding as quickly as they should.
His other hand dragged across the floor beside him, searching blindly.
For what, he didn’t know.
Something to grab.
Something to anchor himself to.
His palm hit tile.
Cold.
Smooth.
He pressed into it, grounding himself for half a second.
“Okay,” he tried again.
The word shook this time.
Didn’t hold.
His head tipped forward.
The room dipped with it.
Dark spots flickered at the edges of his vision, creeping inward slowly, like something closing in.
No.
No, not yet.
He forced himself upright again, shoulder grinding harder into the door behind him, using it to keep from collapsing completely.
“Help,” he said.
Louder.
Or at least he meant it to be louder.
It barely carried.
“Hey—”
His voice cracked.
“Hey—!”
It came out wrong.
Thin.
Frayed.
Not enough.
He tried again, pulling in air that didn’t quite fill his lungs.
“Someone—”
The word broke apart halfway through.
His chest tightened.
His hand slipped again.
More blood.
Too much.
“Fuck—” he gasped.
His head dropped forward this time, chin nearly hitting his chest as he fought to keep himself upright.
He couldn’t pass out.
Not here.
Not now.
Not when—
Mira.
The thought hit again, sharper this time, cutting through the fog just enough to hurt.
“Don’t—” he whispered, though he didn’t know who he was saying it to anymore. “Don’t let her—”
The sentence didn’t finish.
It couldn’t.
Because the house wasn’t empty.
He could feel it now.
Not see it.
Not hear anything clearly.
But something—
something was still moving inside it.
And as his grip weakened just slightly against the wound, as his breathing grew more uneven, more fragile—
Ymir realized, dimly, distantly—
he might not have enough time to explain any of it.
The thought hit and lingered, heavier than the pain for a second—because the pain he could feel, he could fight, he could press against it and pretend that meant something.
But time—
time was already slipping.
The kitchen door creaked somewhere to his left.
Soft.
Unassuming.
The kind of sound that normally wouldn’t pull attention at all.
But now—
Ymir’s head snapped up, vision dragging with the motion, the room tilting again before it steadied just enough for him to make out the doorway.
A figure stepped in.
“Hey—did you guys—”
Noah stopped mid-sentence.
The shift in him was immediate.
It didn’t take time.
Didn’t need context.
His eyes landed on Ymir—on the blood, on the way he was slumped against the door, on the hand pressed too tightly to his stomach—and everything about him snapped into focus at once.
“Shit.”
The word came out low and sharp, not panicked, but close.
He was already moving before it finished.
“Ymir—hey—hey, stay with me.”
He crossed the room fast, dropping to his knees in front of him with a controlled kind of urgency that felt completely different from the chaos inside Ymir’s own body. His hands were steady—already reaching, already assessing.
“What happened?” Noah asked, but he didn’t wait for an answer.
His hand moved to Ymir’s wrist first, checking his pulse out of instinct, then immediately shifted to the wound.
“Move your hand,” he said.
Ymir shook his head weakly. “No—”
“I need to see it.”
There was no hesitation in Noah’s voice now.
No softness.
Just direction.
Ymir hesitated for half a second longer.
Then his grip loosened.
Not by choice.
Because his hand slipped.
Noah pulled it away the rest of the way himself.
The pressure left the wound.
And the pain that followed hit hard enough that Ymir’s head snapped back against the door with a broken gasp.
“Fuck—”
“I know,” Noah said quickly, already pressing down with his own hand. “I know, just—stay with me.”
His palm pressed firm and precise, not careless, not hesitant. He adjusted the angle slightly, then pressed harder, finding the right spot with practiced instinct.
“Deep,” he muttered under his breath. “But not—”
He didn’t finish the sentence.
Didn’t need to.
Ymir felt it in the way his pressure shifted, in the way he didn’t pull back.
Not immediately fatal.
But bad.
Really bad.
“Stay awake,” Noah said, louder now, eyes snapping back to Ymir’s face. “Don’t pass out on me.”
Ymir tried to focus on him.
On his face.
On the sound of his voice.
It helped.
A little.
“Noah—” he rasped.
“Yeah, I’m here.”
“Mira—”
“Don’t talk yet.”
Noah reached blindly to the counter beside him, grabbing the first thing he could—paper towels, a dish cloth, anything—and shoved it against the wound under his hand to reinforce the pressure.
“You’re losing too much blood.”
“No—listen—” Ymir forced the words through anyway, his voice cracking around them. “Mira—she—”
Noah shook his head once, sharp. “Save it. Just breathe.”
“She killed—” Ymir’s breath hitched, his body jerking slightly under the pressure. “She—she said Kane—”
The words tangled.
Fell apart.
His head swam harder now, thoughts slipping before he could hold onto them.
“Hey—hey—” Noah’s voice cut through again, firmer this time. “Stay with me. Look at me.”
Ymir blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus.
Noah’s face sharpened slightly in front of him.
Steady.
Grounded.
Real.
“What happened?” Noah asked again, quieter now, more controlled.
Ymir swallowed hard, throat dry.
“Mira—” he said again, because it was the only word that felt solid enough to hold onto. “She said—Kane—killed Katarin—”
Noah’s hand didn’t stop pressing.
But something in his expression flickered.
Just slightly.
“Okay,” he said. “Okay—”
“Then she—” Ymir’s voice broke harder this time. “She stabbed me.”
The sentence landed.
Not clean.
Not complete.
But enough.
Noah didn’t react the way Ymir expected.
He didn’t jerk back.
Didn’t question it out loud.
He just kept working.
“Slow down,” he said again, like that would fix it. “You’re not making sense.”
“No—” Ymir shook his head weakly, frustration cutting through the fog for half a second. “She—she smiled—she—”
The memory hit again.
The head tilt.
The look.
His stomach turned violently.
“Fuck—” he gasped.
Noah tightened his grip slightly. “Hey—stay with me.”
“She’s not—” Ymir forced the words out, though they didn’t fully form. “She’s not—what she—”
He couldn’t finish it.
The thought wouldn’t settle.
Didn’t make sense.
“Okay,” Noah said again, more firmly now, cutting through it. “We’ll figure that out. Not right now.”
He shifted slightly, adjusting the pressure, then glanced quickly around the kitchen.
Assessing.
Looking for what he needed.
“I need to slow the bleeding more,” he muttered. “We need something stronger than this.”
Ymir barely heard him.
His focus slipped again, the room dimming at the edges.
Mira.
The thought wouldn’t leave.
It circled, incomplete and broken, but persistent.
“Noah,” he said, weaker now.
“Yeah.”
“Don’t—” His voice faltered. “Don’t let her—”
Noah looked back at him.
For a second, something unreadable flickered there.
Then it was gone.
“Just stay awake,” he said.
And pressed harder.
The pressure made the world narrow.
Everything else—the kitchen, the light, the door at his back—fell away for a second until there was only the pain and the weight of Noah’s hand holding him together.
Ymir sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides.
“Stay with me,” Noah said again, more focused now, his voice slipping fully into something practiced. “I’m going to fix this enough to keep you moving, okay? You need to stay awake for me.”
Ymir nodded once.
Or at least tried to.
It came out more like a twitch.
Noah shifted his weight, keeping one hand firm over the wound while the other reached across the counter behind him. Drawers slid open—fast, controlled movements, nothing wasted. Silverware clattered once, then was pushed aside. A cabinet opened next, then another.
“There’s got to be something—” he muttered.
He grabbed a roll of paper towels, then a thicker kitchen cloth, pressing it down over the wound to reinforce the pressure again. His fingers adjusted the angle, pressing lower, then slightly to the side.
“Okay,” he said quietly. “Okay, I can work with this.”
Ymir’s vision flickered.
Noah’s face blurred, then snapped back into focus just long enough to see him thinking—really thinking—running through something in his head.
“I need to wrap it,” Noah said. “Not perfect. Just enough to slow it.”
He reached again, this time pulling open a lower drawer.
Plastic.
A small first aid kit.
Ymir hadn’t even noticed it before.
Noah flipped it open fast, scanning the contents in one quick sweep.
“Okay—okay, that’s something.”
Gauze.
Not enough.
But enough to try.
“This is gonna suck,” Noah warned.
Ymir let out something that might’ve been a laugh if it hadn’t come out broken.
“Great,” he rasped.
Noah didn’t wait.
He pulled the soaked cloth away just enough to shove gauze into place, pressing it down firmly before the blood could surge back through. The movement was quick but not careless—precise, controlled, like he’d done this before.
Ymir’s back slammed harder into the door.
“—fuck—!” he choked.
“I know,” Noah said, not looking up. “Just breathe. Just breathe.”
The gauze filled quickly.
Too quickly.
But Noah didn’t hesitate—layering more over it, pressing down again, adjusting until the flow slowed even slightly.
“Not great,” he muttered. “But it’s better.”
He grabbed the bandage wrap next, hands moving fast now, threading it around Ymir’s torso and back, pulling it tight enough to hold but not enough to cut off movement.
Around once.
Twice.
Three times.
Each pass pulled the pressure into place, locking the gauze down against the wound. Ymir’s breathing stuttered with each pull, pain flaring and settling in waves that made it hard to stay focused.
“Stay with me,” Noah repeated, quieter now.
Ymir blinked hard, forcing his eyes open again.
“I’m—” he tried.
“Yeah, I know. You’re doing great,” Noah said automatically, even though they both knew that wasn’t true.
He secured the wrap in place, pressing it down firmly once more before finally easing the pressure of his hand.
For a second—
they both waited.
The blood didn’t immediately surge through.
It seeped.
Slow.
Contained.
Not good.
But not as bad.
“Okay,” Noah said, more to himself this time. “Okay. That’ll hold. For now.”
Ymir sagged slightly forward, his hand instinctively coming back toward the wound—
and stopping.
He didn’t need to press anymore.
Not like before.
The realization hit through the haze.
Small.
But important.
“You’re gonna feel like shit,” Noah said, sitting back on his heels for half a second. “But you should be able to move. Slowly.”
Ymir let out a shaky breath.
“That’s—good,” he managed.
Noah nodded once, already glancing back at the kit.
Then his expression shifted.
Subtle.
But enough.
“This isn’t enough,” he said.
Ymir’s stomach dropped again, though there wasn’t much left in him for it to react with.
“What—?”
“I need something stronger,” Noah said, more focused now.
He glanced toward the hallway.
Toward the stairs.
“I’ve got a bag upstairs.”
Ymir’s hand shot out, grabbing weakly at Noah’s arm.
“Don’t—” he said, breath catching again. “Don’t go up there—”
Noah looked back at him.
“I have to.”
“No—” Ymir shook his head, the motion making his vision spin. “She’s—she’s—”
The words wouldn’t line up.
Wouldn’t form fast enough.
Mira.
Say Mira.
Say it.
“She’s not—” he tried.
Noah cut him off gently but firmly, pulling his arm free.
“I’ll be right back.”
Too calm.
Too certain.
Like this was just another step.
Like nothing else was wrong.
“Stay here,” Noah added.
Ymir stared at him.
Stay here.
Like he had a choice.
Noah pushed to his feet, already moving, already turning toward the hallway.
“Noah—” Ymir tried again, weaker now.
Noah didn’t stop.
His footsteps moved away from the kitchen.
Toward the stairs.
Toward the second floor.
Toward—
Ymir’s chest tightened, panic breaking through the fog for one sharp, useless second.
“Don’t—” he whispered.
But Noah was already gone.
The house swallowed the sound of his steps as he moved upward.
And just like that—
Ymir was alone again.
The stairs creaked under Noah’s weight.
Not loud.
But loud enough.
Noah took them two at a time anyway, his hand brushing the railing just enough to steady himself as he moved. His mind was already running ahead of him—inventory, timing, pressure, blood loss. Ymir wasn’t stable. Not really. That wrap would hold for a bit, but not long enough.
He needed meds.
Something stronger.
Something to keep him conscious.
The hallway at the top of the stairs was quieter than it should’ve been.
No movement.
No voices.
Just still.
Noah slowed slightly as he stepped onto the landing, his eyes flicking down the hall automatically, scanning without thinking.
Open door.
Closed door.
Light cutting in through one of the rooms at an angle that didn’t quite reach the floor.
Something felt—
off.
Not enough to name.
Just enough to register.
“Mira?” he called.
No answer.
He exhaled once, short, then moved forward anyway.
His bag was in his room.
Just a few more steps.
Something shifted at the end of the hallway.
Not movement.
Not clearly.
Just—
a shadow.
It slipped across the wall too fast to fully catch, gone the second his eyes tried to lock onto it.
Noah stopped.
The silence pressed in tighter.
“…Hello?” he said, quieter now.
Nothing answered.
He stood there for one second longer than he should have.