The corridor was a ruin of broken glass and silence.

Max staggered through it with one arm hooked under Dan's shoulders, the other braced tight around his waist, dragging most of his friend's weight. Dan hung in his grip like a lifeless thing, feet dragging behind them and leaving dark smears of blood across the shattered tiles.

The faint flicker of Soulfire still clung to Max's skin, a reluctant glow beneath his fingertips, but it offered no strength now—only pain. His lungs burned with each breath. His jacket hung half-torn and soaked through, heavy against his shoulders. Every step felt like a question his legs weren't sure they could answer.

Victor limped beside him, one hand pressed to his ribs and the other skimming the wall for balance. Blood clung to the curls of his beard, his boots stamping uneven prints in their wake. He didn't speak; his gaze stayed forward, shadowed with the dull calculation of a man too tired to measure how bad the damage was, yet unwilling to look away.

They turned the final corner. Liz's room stood intact. Through the cracked glass wall, Max could see her lying where they'd left her, bathed in the soft spill of light from the monitors. She hadn't moved. Still unconscious. But the faint red halo above her brow pulsed slowly, steady as a heartbeat.

Max stopped, his legs folding halfway through the motion so that he half-knelt, half-collapsed to the floor. Dan slipped from his grasp, hitting the ground with a wet gasp—though Max wasn't sure if the sound came from Dan or himself. Blood soaked through the shredded fabric of Dan's shirt, dark and spreading. The wound along his ribs was jagged, torn at strange angles, as though something had clawed outward from inside him.

Max pressed both hands hard against it, his fingers sliding on the slick heat. His pulse roared in his ears. The fire inside him stirred faintly, a shimmer along his wrist, but it faltered—this wasn't something it knew how to burn away.

Dan's face was grey, lips pale.

Victor crouched beside them, wincing as his ribs pulled. "Shit. That's worse than I thought—"

"I know," Max rasped. "He's going into shock."

Dan's chest rose once, shallow, then again, even shallower.

The hospital felt wrong in a way Max couldn't ignore. Too still. No footsteps. No paging voices from the ceiling. No rush of nurses or barked orders from unseen doctors. Just the intermittent flicker of dying lights and the slow, rhythmic drip of water from a broken sprinkler somewhere above.

The demon's psychic wave had swept the place clean. Everyone who hadn't been close when the fight ended was still out cold… or gone entirely.

They were alone.

Max looked down at Dan's face again, his own hands still locked over the wound as if pressure alone could hold back the tide. He felt like a child on a beach, trying to stop the ocean with nothing but his palms.

We won, he told himself.

The Soulfire inside him dimmed, its warmth fading to embers.

So why does it feel like I'm still losing?

His gaze drifted to the glow inside Liz's room—steady, untouched. Then back down to the man bleeding out in his hands. One child safe. One friend dying.

He closed his eyes for just a second and let the guilt burn deeper than the fire ever could.

***

Victor hit the ER doors with his shoulder, teeth gritted as pain tore through his ribs. The hinges groaned and gave way under his weight, swinging wide into a hallway that flickered with half-dead light. Puddles spread along the edges of the floor where a burst line dripped steadily from above, the sound sharp in the otherwise suffocating quiet.

"Hey!" His voice cracked through the stillness, louder than he'd meant it to be. "Anyone still standing?! We need a doctor! A medic! Anyone!"

Only silence came back—thick, smothering, as if the walls themselves had learned to swallow sound.

He limped forward, stepping over a crash cart tipped on its side. The emergency bay was wreckage: defibrillators lay half-disassembled on the floor, one still sparking; monitors blinked unreadable lines before cutting out again. A nurse slumped against the far wall, her legs folded awkwardly beneath her, eyes half-lidded. Another figure lay in scrubs near the supply cabinets, motionless.

Victor crouched beside the man—a middle-aged nurse, blood dried at his temple. He grabbed his shoulder and shook, starting gentle. "Hey. C'mon, wake up."

Nothing.

He shook harder. "I said wake up!"

The man's head lolled uselessly to one side.

Victor swore under his breath and pushed himself upright. His ribs protested, but he ignored them. The nurse's station was next—three more staff down like discarded mannequins, a fourth frozen mid-note, pen still pressed to paper. A phone lay in her limp hand. Dead screen.

He snatched another from a charging dock—nothing. No signal, no tone. The comm panel on the wall blinked an angry red; static hissed through the speaker like a wasp trapped behind glass. Even the emergency intercom was useless.

"Goddammit…"

He moved faster, the urgency gnawing at his chest. Pain rode his every step, but he didn't slow. He kicked open a staff break room: overturned chairs, a pot of burnt coffee still faintly smoking, ID badges scattered across the linoleum. Empty.

The second stairwell gave him only echoes and twitching light. "Doctor! Nurse! Anyone awake?!"

Nothing.

He slammed the door to Radiology until his knuckles burned—no answer. ICU was worse. Beds stripped bare, others filled with patients frozen mid-breath, eyelids fluttering, chests rising and falling in a slow, unnatural rhythm. Alive, but vacant—like puppets with their strings cut.

Victor grabbed an orderly by the collar and shook hard. "Wake up! Move!"

The man exhaled softly, but nothing changed.

Victor stepped back, his fists curling until his nails bit into his palms. This was a hospital. There was supposed to be help in a hospital. But the truth sat there, ugly and immovable—whatever the demon had done, it had gutted this place without spilling a drop.

He climbed another flight in the stairwell, boots scraping the metal steps. On the landing, a patient in a torn gown slumped against the wall, blood matting the fabric near his hip. Victor pressed two fingers to his neck—pulse, weak but steady. No response to shaking. Not even a flicker of awareness.

The air still carried it—that psychic residue. Not a smell, exactly, but a pressure. Like the world had been wrapped in gauze and pulled tight, muting everything.

Victor leaned against the railing for a heartbeat, letting the cold steel bite his palm, then pushed off again.

There was no one else.

When he limped back to Liz's room, the corridor felt even longer than before. Max was still kneeling over Dan, hands slick with blood, his expression locked in grim concentration.

Victor dropped beside them. His voice was low, but the words were heavy. "There's no one left. Everyone's out. Or gone."

He looked at Dan, pale and still, then back at Max. "We're it."

Autopilot took over. He checked the pulse—thin. Checked the bleeding—worse. Pressure dressings were already saturated, failing.

"We're running out of time."

Max didn't answer. His hands stayed clamped to the wound, eyes fixed as if he could hold Dan in place by sheer will.

Victor sat back on his heels. For just a second, his shoulders sagged—not from pain, but from the weight of knowing there was nothing left to find. He rarely let fear show, not to Max, not to anyone. But this was the kind of helpless that turned soldiers into ghosts.

***

Max ripped a clean sheet from the nearest gurney, his fingers slick with blood and trembling from exhaustion. He twisted it into a thick band, tossing it toward Victor without a word. The older man caught it instantly, his movements clipped and precise, muscle memory taking over.

He wrapped it around Dan's abdomen, just below the ribs, pulling until the fabric bit into skin. Dan groaned faintly, his head rolling, but his eyes stayed shut.

"Keep the pressure high," Max muttered, his voice rough. "We just need to slow the bleed long enough for a plan."

Victor's reply was flat, tight. "We're already out of plans."

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They moved in grim sync, not even needing to speak. Max tore open a drawer, grabbing antiseptic pads and tape—hands shaking as if they knew how pointless it was.

"Elevation," Max said.

Victor slid Dan's legs onto a crumpled coat, bracing them while Max pressed another layer of fabric over the wound. It was already soaked through, warmth spreading against his palms in a steady, unstoppable rhythm.

Max's jaw clenched. "Artery might be nicked. Organ damage's likely."

Victor's voice cracked with frustration. "Yeah, I can tell. I'm holding half his blood in my hands." He shook his head sharply, a flare of anger flashing through the pain in his ribs. "This isn't going to cut it. He's dying, Max."

"I know," Max said, teeth bared.

Victor's gaze flicked to the faint golden shimmer under Max's skin. "You've got demon fire in your veins. I've seen you punch holes through walls. Through monsters. And you're telling me it can't fix him?"

Max shook his head. "It doesn't work like that."

Victor glared. "Then tell me how it works."

"It doesn't fix," Max said, his hands tightening on the bandage. "It awakens."

Victor frowned. "Awakens what?"

"What's already inside you," Max said after a long beat. "The thing you need most. The thing your soul was meant for."

Victor stared down at Dan—skin pale, breath shallow, lips already losing colour—then back up at Max. "Then do it."

Max's breath caught. "Victor—"

"No," Victor cut in, leaning closer. "You do not get to hesitate right now."

Max's voice rose, ragged. "This isn't why I have it. I swore I'd only ever use it to help Liz. Not like this."

Victor's eyes hardened. "Liz is alive. Dan won't be unless you move your ass."

Max shook his head, almost violently. "You don't understand what this is. I don't even know what it does to people. I don't know what he'll turn into."

Victor's tone was steel. "I don't care what it turns him into, because he won't turn into anything if you just sit here and watch him bleed out."

Max swallowed hard. "If I do this… there's no taking it back."

"Good," Victor said. "Then make it count. You think he wouldn't do the same for you? For Liz?"

The words hit hard. Max glanced down at Dan, blood soaking through the makeshift bandage, his face still and slack.

Victor's voice dropped to a low, final note. "Whatever it takes. Just don't let him die."

Max stared at his own hands—red to the wrists, faint gold light curling at the edges of his knuckles. The same fear as before. The same cliff-edge he'd stood on for Liz.

No contracts. No rules. Just power.

And the cost.

His mind flashed to Liz—her small hand limp in his at the hospital, the faint red halo above her brow. Every fight, every drop of blood, every unholy bargain had been for her. He'd sworn this fire was hers alone, that he would burn himself hollow if it meant keeping her safe.

Now, here he was, standing on that same edge for someone else. He could almost hear Aamon's voice, mocking him for how easily his convictions bent under pressure.

And somewhere beneath the fear, a whisper: if it could bring Dan back from the brink… what might it do for her? He crushed the thought before it could root, but the taste of it lingered.

He closed his eyes. The fire stirred in his chest, warm and waiting.

Please, he thought. Not to the fire. Not to anything he could name.

Then he let it rise.

***

Max's hand hovered over Dan's chest, steady but reluctant, the fingers trembling as if they already knew what they were about to invite in. It was not a fist clenched in battle, nor a blaze of uncontrolled flame. It simply waited, suspended between choice and consequence.

Beneath his palm, Dan's body lay slack on the cold tile, his skin the pallor of ash, lips parted in shallow, uneven breaths that rasped as though they had to fight their way free. The makeshift bandage across his abdomen was soaked through, the deep red still spreading in stubborn defiance. Max pressed two fingers to his neck, finding a pulse so faint it felt like it might vanish entirely if he looked away.

He lowered his hand until it rested against Dan's sternum, feeling the fragile beat beneath, the final flickers of life that clung on out of sheer defiance. His head bowed, and the words left him as little more than breath. "Please. Not rage. Not power. Just stay alive."

The Soulfire didn't erupt as it had in battle. Instead, it seemed to pause, as though listening, and then it began to move—slow, deliberate, and impossibly measured. A low thrum stirred beneath Max's skin, not the roar of a wildfire, but the steady heartbeat of a forge still glowing from the day's work. A light gathered in his palm, faint at first, the barest suggestion of gold, before deepening into a molten amber that seemed to pulse in time with Dan's own faltering rhythm.

Threads of radiance unfurled from his fingertips, drifting into the air before sinking into Dan's body like sunlight breaking through deep water. It was not a force that tore or demanded; it wrapped itself around him with a quiet, inexorable patience. The light seeped into every wound, every bruised nerve, every place where the body had begun to surrender, coaxing it back from the edge rather than dragging it by force.

Dan's body shivered, his back arching slightly as the glow spread beneath his skin. Max's arm shook from the effort of keeping the contact, each second feeling as though the fire inside him was being siphoned away thread by thread. Golden veins bloomed across Dan's chest and shoulders in delicate, fleeting patterns, curling almost into the suggestion of ancient symbols before fading again into the warmth. The torn flesh at his side began to soften, the blood flow stilled, and then, impossibly, the wound began to close—slow at first, then with growing certainty, muscle knitting, skin drawing together as though time itself had agreed to turn its gaze backwards for a moment.

Victor watched without moving, his jaw tight, eyes fixed on the transformation. "Holy shit…" he murmured, almost to himself, the words carrying a strange mixture of awe and disbelief.

The glow within Dan didn't stop—it deepened, thickened, until it felt as if the entire hallway had tilted toward him. Heat—not burning, but radiant—rolled off in slow waves, brushing over Max's skin and settling deep in his chest. The light condensed, rising from Dan's brow to form not the jagged, war-born crown Max carried, but something whole, unbroken, and impossibly calm.

A perfect circle of gold.

Victor's breath caught—he hadn't realised he'd been holding it. The light caught in the wet sheen of blood on the tiles, fractured across shards of glass like a hundred miniature suns. The air felt thicker, warmer, and for the first time since the fight, he could breathe without tasting copper.

The halo pulsed once, and in that single heartbeat Max swore he felt the echo inside his own bones. The corridor swam in its warmth—blood gleaming wet again in the light, fractured glass scattering it in a hundred points across the floor. Smoke thinned where it touched, and the shadows retreated as if the glow was something the dark had no right to touch.

A sudden, deep breath tore from Dan's lungs, followed by another, stronger this time.

His chest began to rise and fall in an even rhythm, a faint whistle threading each exhale as if his lungs were relearning the shape of breath. The greyness of his skin bled away in a slow tide, colour warming his cheeks. His fingers twitched against the tile with the faint rasp of skin on grit. His lips moved faintly, not words—just the small, instinctive murmur of someone reaching for consciousness from very far away.

Max didn't dare blink. He felt the fire within him start to ebb, pulling back into his veins as though it had given all it could. The warmth faded from his palm, leaving behind only the weight of exhaustion and a deep ache in his bones.

When he finally drew his hand away, the wound was gone. Blood still marked his skin and shirt, dried in ugly stains, but there was no open gash—only clean, sealed flesh that no longer looked like it belonged to the dying.

A breath escaped him, half a laugh, half a sob. "It worked."

Victor's gaze never left Dan, his expression unreadable.

Max didn't look away either. He wasn't sure if what he had done was salvation or something else entirely. All he knew was that it came from the same place that had saved Liz… and nearly burned him away in the process. And now, that power—whatever it truly was—lived in Dan as well.

Not fire. Not exactly. Something steadier. Something… sacred.

Relief settled over him, heavy and staggering, but beneath it coiled a sharper, colder truth. He hadn't just saved Dan's life.

He had changed him.

And whatever had awakened was already alive and watching.

***

Dan stirred as though surfacing from deep water.

First, the faintest twitch of his fingers. Then a slow, halting breath that caught in his throat before finding its rhythm. His eyelids lifted fraction by fraction, like they'd forgotten how to move, until the dim light caught in his eyes.

Max exhaled—more a release than a breath—his knees loosening under him. He leaned forward quickly, slipping a hand behind Dan's back and another beneath his arm, guiding him upright with the kind of care one might use to lift fragile glass. Dan's movements were stiff but sure. No sharp inhale. No grimace. Just breath—steady, measured, alive.

When his eyes fully opened, Max saw it. Not the old blue. Not entirely human. Gold shimmered faintly in his irises, subtle but unmistakable, like dawn light caught in still water.

"…What happened?" Dan's voice was dry, rasping from disuse.

"You died," Victor answered before Max could speak, his tone flat, stripped of anything but fact. He leaned against the wall, arms folded tight against his ribs. "Almost. You were bleeding out. We tried everything."

Max nodded, his own voice low. "We couldn't stop it. So… I gave you something."

Dan blinked at him, frowning. "You mean the fire?"

Max hesitated. "Not exactly. Not the fire—not in the way it's in me. I gave you a piece of what's here." He tapped his own chest lightly. "It changes people. Awakens something. But only what's already inside you."

Dan didn't answer. Instead, his hand drifted to his own chest, resting over where the wound had been. His shirt was still torn. Blood was still dried in jagged stains across the fabric. But beneath his palm, there was only warmth—a deep, quiet hum, as if some hidden heartbeat now pulsed in time with his own.

His hand moved again, this time reaching toward Max. He pressed his palm gently against Max's side, over the deep bruising that had been gnawing at every breath since the fight.

There was no flare, no blinding blaze. Just a ripple of heat—soft, grounding—spreading from Dan's touch. It moved through Max like warm water poured over aching bone, loosening muscles that had been clenched for hours, dulling the raw burn in his ribs until it faded to a faint ache.

Max drew in a startled breath. "That's…" He stopped, not sure how to finish the thought.

Victor gave a low whistle. "That's not normal."

Dan glanced down at his own hand, still pressed to Max's side, the faint gold lingering under his skin. "…Is this healing?" His tone was quiet, almost as though speaking too loudly might break it.

"Jesus Christ…" Victor muttered, then gave a short, disbelieving snort. "You telling me we're doing biblical miracles in the middle of a massacre?"

A rough laugh caught in Dan's throat. "No. Not a saviour."

Max studied him, the new glow, the way his presence felt different now—warmer, steadier, but also… unfamiliar. "It's not that simple," he said. "The fire doesn't hand out answers. It just wakes something up. What you do with it—that's on you."

Dan was quiet for a moment, absorbing the weight of that. His gaze moved between them. "Still… thank you. For keeping me alive. For not giving up." His eyes lingered on Victor, then returned to Max. "Thank you."

Max's mouth opened, but the words stuck. The relief in his chest warred with something heavier. Finally, he said, "I'm sorry."

Dan frowned. "For what?"

Max's voice dropped to a rough whisper. "All of this. It's my fault."

Dan looked down at his hands. Gold light pulsed faintly beneath the skin—not hot, not dangerous, but constant, like a promise that could not be undone.

Victor didn't interrupt. He watched, silent and sharp-eyed.

Dan's brow furrowed—not in fear, but in the kind of dawning clarity that was half recognition, half unease. He flexed his fingers once, watching the faint gold shift beneath the tendons as though it might answer him. "It feels… like it's been there the whole time," he murmured, almost to himself. "Like I just forgot until now."

His gaze sharpened, the uncertainty in his eyes cooling into something steadier.

Resolve.

"If this is what I am now…" His hands closed, the gold catching like sunlight on steel. "Then I'm not wasting it. I'm going to save as many people as I can—before the world takes this from me too."

Max's reply came without hesitation. "Saving people's what we do, Dan. Always has been. Now we've got one more way to do it, together."

The hallway seemed to hold still around them—the flickering lights, the thin drift of smoke curling along the ceiling, the blood spattered in uneven trails on the tile. Something had shifted. The man sitting there was no longer broken and bleeding.

He was steady. Centred. Beginning.

And then, as if the world had remembered how to breathe, the distant wail of sirens began to rise, threading through the silence like the promise of something coming.

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