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The single shot came from nowhere.
One second, Alex was speaking, the low hum of the subway blending with his voice. The next - a deafening crack that split the air, a bright flash from the corner of Max's eye that signaled gunfire.
Max blinked.
That was all he had time to do before the world twisted, slowed, broke apart.
Alex staggered, his breath hitching sharply as his body lurched. His glasses slipped down the bridge of his nose, almost comically if not for the dark stain rapidly blooming on his chest. A spray of blood followed the bullet’s exit, misting through the air.
Red, bright red, like a sick, violent flower blooming in the dim light of the station.
Max watched, helpless, as the droplets caught the flickering subway station light and floated toward him, landing on his face, his lips. He could taste it before he even realized what had happened - metallic, bitter. He could taste Alex’s blood. Alex was bleeding. Alex was shot.
No.
Max watched as, in a single moment, Alex crumpled to the ground, his legs giving out from under him. His body hit the cold tile with a heavy thud, a noise that echoed hollowly through the empty station. His glasses had been knocked askew, half-fallen off his face. One cracked lens glinted under the flickering lights, smeared with blood. So much blood.
Alex loved those glasses.
Max’s feet were moving before his mind could catch up. But still too late. Always too late.
He was at the gate, the cold metal bars biting into his hands as he gripped them tight, tighter than he thought possible, so hard that he thought they would bend. Beyond the bars, Alex lay sprawled on the other side, too far to reach. But Max stretched his arm through the gap anyway, his fingers barely grazing the blood-soaked fabric of Alex’s leather coat.
No.
"Alex!" Max's voice was hoarse, barely more than a rasp. He couldn't think past the pounding in his ears, the sound of his own heartbeat echoing through the tunnel. "Alex, come on. Look at me! Shit!"
Alex’s chest heaved, each breath rattling, gurgling through the blood that filled his lungs. His eyes, half-lidded and dazed, slowly blinked up at Max, but they were distant, fogged with pain and fading awareness.
Not again...
Max tried to hold on to him. He had to hold on. Reaching, straining through the bars, his fingers found Alex’s hand, slick with blood but still warm - still warm. Warmth meant Alex was still alive. Warmth meant Alex still breathed. Warmth meant Max hadn't failed another - hadn't lost another.
Max gripped Alex's hand, hard, as though he could anchor Alex to life with just that, as though he could keep him here just a little longer.
If only he could just hold on.
Alex’s head lolled to the side, his cheek pressed against the cold, grimy floor. Blood continued to pool beneath him, a sickening crimson river flowing outward, seeping into the cracks of the tile. It was everywhere - on the floor, the walls, painting the world in violent splashes of red.
It was on Max. He could taste it on his lips, feel it on his skin. His grip on Alex's hand was growing slippery with the blood.
"Mmm..." Alex groaned, blood falling from his lips as he tried to speak, "Max..." Alex’s voice was a wet whisper, barely audible over the pounding in Max’s ears. Blood bubbled up on his lips, dark and thick.
The way he said Max’s name - it was like a farewell.
Max felt his throat tighten as he watched, helpless. Alex was slipping away. His breaths came shorter, shallower, each one a struggle, each one weaker than the last. His fingers in Max’s grip twitched, then went still. Too still.
"Alex... Alex, no. Stay with me!" Max shouted, panic rising, his voice breaking. He squeezed Alex's hand, harder, trying to anchor him. Trying to make him stay, "just hold on. Just - just hold on, okay? Help’s coming! You’re gonna be fine."
A lie.
He knew it. Alex knew it too. The way his eyes fluttered, the way his bloodied lips barely moved as he tried to speak but couldn’t - he knew.
Max was lying.
He couldn't hold on.
The gate stood between them, an iron barrier Max couldn't break. It was solid, impenetrable. Like fate itself had stepped in, blocking Max from doing anything but watch as Alex’s life drained out onto the cold tile.
He was so close, and yet it might as well have been miles. He could see Alex's face, the blood smudging his glasses, but he couldn’t get to him, couldn’t stop the bleeding, couldn’t save him.
He couldn't save him.
Max’s breath hitched as Alex’s hand slackened in his grip. His pulse - a faint, erratic flutter beneath Max’s fingers - faded.
And suddenly it was August 22nd, 1998.
He’d been too late then, too. Too late to save anyone. And now, Alex.
He couldn't hold on.
He couldn't save them.
"No, no, no - Alex!" Max’s voice cracked, his hand still clutching Alex’s as if he could pull him back from the edge. But Alex’s body was already limp, his chest barely moving now. His eyes, glassy and unfocused, stared into nothing.
Max’s knuckles were white as he clenched his hand tighter around Alex’s, trying to feel any sign of life, anything at all.
There was nothing.
He could taste the blood on his lips. He could smell the copper tang of it in the air. It was everywhere, pooling beneath Alex, spreading in a sickening river, filling the cracks in the tiles. The subway station had turned into a slaughterhouse, and all Max could do was hold on to the hand of a dying man.
He leaned his forehead against the gate, the cold metal digging into his skin, blood still wet on his face, his lips, his hands. He could feel the weight of Alex’s body on the other side, lifeless now. The warmth was fading. The warmth was slipping away.
It was so cold.
The last breath escaped Alex's lips in a soft sigh, barely audible. His blood-streaked glasses slipped further, half-falling off his face, smudged with red, the crack in the lens catching the last flicker of light in the dark station.
He couldn't hold on.
Max's vision blurred as he blinked against the wetness in his eyes, his grip loosening at last, fingers trembling as they slid away from Alex's lifeless hand.
He let go.
It was over.
Alex was gone.