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Summary
In the haze of everything, he grips the hand on his throat. Doesn’t pull it away, just kind of grips it. Brain bruised against his skull, he’s not really thinking, just moving on autopilot. The hand’s a rock in an ocean. The most real thing in the world. Solid and he bends around it.
Whitney punches him again. Couple more times. And Shane holds his hand. Presses it in.
Blood and oxygen all cut off with a single flex.
“Oh shit,” Whitney whispers, or something like it.
