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Their suspect was getting away.
Saga could hear his footsteps pounding further into the distance, the echo of his escape fading into the city's endless noise of cars honking and people shouting. She should have been on her feet, running after him, calling for backup. But her attention was fixed on Casey.
He was down.
The moment she’d seen him collapse, the moment she had seen the flash of steel in the suspect's hand, the world had narrowed to the sight of her partner lying on the wet pavement, blood pooling rapidly beneath him, a horrible dark stain growing on the front of his dress shirt.
The suspect didn’t matter anymore. Nothing else did. There was only Casey.
She dropped to her knees beside him, hands already pressing against the wound as she called out to a passerby to call 9-1-1, her voice cracking with panic.
When Casey spoke, his voice was a rasping, brittle sound that cut through the fog in her mind. "Isn't it funny?" His voice was weak, rasping through his pain. He let his head loll to the side, catching his reflection in the spreading pool of blood beneath him - too much blood, far too much blood. "Bleeding to death in a New York alley... figures."
Saga didn't know what to do.
They had seen a lot throughout their years with the FBI, but this wasn’t just a brush with danger, wasn’t the kind of story they could laugh about over drinks later. This was Casey slipping through Saga's fingers, no matter how hard she fought to hold on.
He was already paling, his movements slowing.
Saga pressed harder against the wound, her hands trembling despite her efforts to stay steady. The fabric of her sweater, once a bright shade of red but now soaked darker with Casey’s blood, felt useless. Too much of it was escaping him. "Shut up," she hissed, trying to keep her voice steady. "Shut up, you're not dying here, Casey. You're not."
But his eyes - distant, glazed, looking at something that wasn't here - weren't focusing. "It's so ironic, isn’t it?" Casey choked, a cough rattling from his throat. His body spasmed beneath Saga's hands, and she could feel the struggle, the fight slipping away. "Everyone thinks we're so damn similar, that stupid character... and now I'm dying just like him. Should’ve known better... alleyways... he died in a fuckin' alley."
Saga wanted to kill everyone who had ever made the joke of comparing Casey to that damned book character.
"Stop talking," she ordered, but it was softer this time. Desperate. The pulse beneath her fingers was weakening, his skin growing clammy. The smell of blood filled the alley, mixing with the city's grime, the darkness closing in around them. "Just... just hold on, Casey. Help is on the way."
Her hands were already slick with blood, the warm, sticky feeling coating her skin as she pressed harder against the wound. Her heart pounded in her ears, drowning out everything except the terrible sound of Casey’s shallow breaths.
She couldn’t lose him. Not here. Not like this.
Casey reached up with a trembling hand, fumbling to hold onto her hand and landing on her arm as he fought to speak. His hand was slick with blood. His blood. He gave a ghost of a smile, his eyelids drooping. "If you ever find him... punch that damned author for me."
A sharp pain pricked at Saga’s chest, twisting with every labored breath Casey took. His words were becoming distant, heavy. She pressed harder, harder, knowing it wouldn’t be enough. The blood wouldn’t stop. She couldn’t stop it. The cold, seeping crimson puddle under her knees spread wider, as if the alley itself was swallowing them both whole, as if soon they would both drown beneath the tide of Casey's split blood.
"You're not dying," she whispered, though her voice wavered with the weight of the lie. "Punch that idiot yourself, Casey. Alex."
He didn't reply.
Time seemed to slow, each second stretching as she held her breath, waiting for the sound of sirens that felt like they would never come.
The cold from the alley seeped into her bones, but it couldn’t chase away the unbearable heat of Casey’s blood soaking through her clothes, coating her hands.
It felt like hours, like a lifetime, before the distant wail of sirens finally reached her ears, a distant promise of help that felt far too late.
His blood was beginning to cool.
The paramedics rushed into the alley, their voices a blur in her ears as they pushed her away. Hands shoved her back, away from Casey, and she stumbled, almost falling before she caught her footing.
She barely noticed.
Blood - his blood, it was all his blood, oh God - covered her hands, smeared across her arms, staining her clothes. The metallic stench clung to her skin, thick and wet, impossible to ignore.
His blood, his life, had marked her, and she felt it like a brand.
She stared down at her hands, at where Casey had grabbed her. Casey’s fingerprints stained her now, not just figuratively, perfectly imprinted upon her skin with a crimson dye that spoke of death. His life was fading in this damned alley, but his blood lingered, his essence smearing across her skin like a final, indelible imprint. Evidence. Proof.
Would this be all that was left of him? Would these marks outlast him?
There was shouting, urgent voices she couldn’t place. She stepped back, her head swimming. His name echoed in the chaos, but it sounded like it belonged to someone else. Everything felt distant, cold, despite the heat of the blood on her hands.
He was being loaded into the ambulance, but she couldn't follow. She couldn't force her legs to move, feeling like she was standing in molasses. She could only stand there, staring at the blood.
There was so much.
She looked down at the dark stain spreading across the alleyway - Casey’s life, seeping into the cracks of the city, staining her shoes, her skin, everything.
She couldn't move.