Levi reached for the keys, but I intercepted his hand. He had chauffeured us to the chocolatier; the return journey was my prerogative. Neither of us indulged in alcohol, so there was no reason for me not to take the wheel. Our drive back home commenced, and a thrill simmered within me. Levi, made sure my seatbelt was securely fastened – the man could be infuriatingly meticulous about regulations at times.

“Raphael, my other anniversary gift awaits you at home,” he then murmured, a smile playing on his lips.

Another gift? Gods, I sincerely hoped it wasn't another one of his… uniquely crafted masterpieces that my overly sensitive heart might struggle to process.

We were cruising down the stretch of the main boulevard, the evening traffic of the capital city proving its usual chaotic self. I gripped the steering wheel, focused on navigating the labyrinth of honking taxis and impatient private vehicles. Suddenly, a deafening blast of a truck horn erupted to my left, followed by an bright, flashing light that seared across my eyes, stealing my vision. Disoriented and blinded, my grip on the steering wheel loosened for a second. I felt Levi’s hand shoot out, his fingers clamping down over mine on the wheel, his voice a sharp warning. But it was too late. The car veered violently. We careened off course, the world outside the windshield tilting at a terrifying angle before culminating in a shattering impact. The front of our vehicle slammed into the large glass storefront of what I registered, as a barber’s shop, sending shards of glass exploding inwards like deadly rain. My head snapped forward, colliding with the steering wheel, followed by a sharp, agonizing pressure as my chest slammed into it. Through the ringing in my ears, I heard Levi’s frantic shout of my name.

A searing wave of agony washed over me, but the airbags absorbed a significant portion of the impact. Through the spiderwebbed remains of the side window, my reflection stared back – a mask of shock, punctuated by a few angry red lines and tiny glinting fragments of glass embedded in my arms and face. Beyond the superficial cuts, however, I seemed to be… intact. My head throbbed with ache, and a crushing weight pressed against my chest. The adrenaline coursing through my veins ensured a full-body tremor, a violent shudder that I couldn't seem to control, but there was a strange sense of disbelief that I wasn't more seriously injured.

Levi’s hand shot out, his grip tight on my arm, his face pale. “Raphael… are you… alright?” His voice trembled slightly. I turned to fully face him, ready to offer reassurances, but the words caught in my throat, strangled by the horrifying sight before me.

Lodged deep in his abdomen, glistening wetly in the dim light filtering through the shattered windshield, was a jagged shard of glass, easily larger than my outstretched palm. The barber shop’s storefront was embedded in my Levi’s flesh. His clothes were soaked, saturated with a horrifying amount of dark, viscous blood that seemed to bloom outwards from the wound. “Shit…” The word tore from my lips, a raw, guttural sound. “Oh, shit. No. No. No…” My mind refused to comprehend what my eyes were seeing. This couldn't be happening.

“Raphael. Look at me.” Levi’s voice, though strained, held a firmness that cut through my rising panic. “Calm down. And do exactly as I say. Call Holden.” How could he be so composed, so in control, with a massive piece of glass protruding from his abdomen? I was frozen, gripped by utter terror, my limbs refusing to obey my frantic thoughts.

“Call Holden. Now!”

“N-not… not an ambulance?” I stammered, my voice barely a whisper, my mind still reeling.

“Do as I say, Raphael. Now.”

The urgency in his tone, pierced through my paralysis.

My fingers fumbled with my phone, my breath catching in ragged gasps. I managed to find Holden's contact and pressed call, my hand shaking so violently I could barely hold the device steady. I put the call on speaker, my gaze fixed on the horrifying sight of the glass in Levi’s abdomen. “Holden,” he commanded, “Code red. Inform Academia to prepare an OR. Stat.”

A sharp intake of breath was the only outward sign of Holden’s shock. “Y-yes. Understood. I will see to it immediately.” His voice, though still professional, held a tremor before the line went dead.

Levi turned his gaze to me, his eyes intense and unwavering. “Raphael. Listen to me. No questions. No arguments. Do you understand?” I could only nod, my throat tight with a mixture of terror and a strange, dawning sense that Levi was somehow… in control. “Good.” He then instructed, his voice surprisingly calm despite the blood soaking his clothes, “Now, take my shoes off.”

His shoes? Off? What possible reason could there be for that? No, Raphael, you idiot. He told you to do as he says. Just do it. With a shaky breath, I leaned in, carefully maneuvering my body to avoid any contact with his abdomen and the protruding glass shard. Slowly, I eased first one shoe, then the other, off his feet.

A small wiggle of his toes.

“Good,” he murmured. “No spinal damage. Listen carefully. Take my clothes off. Gently. And tell me precisely how the blood is flowing. Is it gushing? Splattering with each breath? Is it a steady stream? Quick, Raphael… the adrenaline won’t last…” His breathing was becoming more shallow, ragged. Oh... Time was slipping away.

I worked the buckle of his belt. Finally, it sprang open, and I fumbled with the buttons of his shirt, my stomach churning with a nauseating mix of fear and dread. With agonizing slowness, I lifted the fabric, revealing the full, horrifying extent of the injury. Shit. Oh, shit. No, Raphael. You have to stay calm.

“It’s… just dripping,” I managed to stammer out, focusing on the dark fluid oozing steadily from the wound.

“Good,” he murmured, a flicker of relief crossing his pale face before a raw, guttural cry tore from his throat, his body arching against the seat. The adrenaline had completely abandoned him. The pain was setting in.

“Raph…” Levi gasped, his breath catching in his throat, another ragged cry tearing through. “Make sure… I…” His words were fragmented, laced with agony. “Don’t allow my… consciousness to recede…”

The color was draining from his face, leaving it ashen, almost translucent. Oh, sweet gods. We had to wait for Holden, for Academia, for whatever specialized help he had summoned. I gently cupped his face in my hands, my thumbs brushing against his clammy skin.

“Levi… uhm…” My mind raced, a frantic whirlwind of fear and desperation. C’mon, brain, think. Anything. Just keep him talking. Keep him here. Tears threatened to spill, hot and unwanted, but I fought them back with every ounce of my will. “Tell me about your father,” I said, my voice trembling despite my efforts to sound steady. I knew how much he cherished the memories of his father, how his eyes would soften whenever he spoke of him.

His gaze remained unfocused, his eyelids heavy, fluttering like tired wings. He couldn’t speak. Not even a whisper. Okay. Okay, Raphael. You have to be strong. You have to talk. You have to think of something. Anything.

“You know, Levi,” I continued, my voice trembling slightly but gaining a fragile steadiness, “Cyrusia really sucks. They’re so… fascists, and the racism is just rampant. And the language! They don’t even call the country ‘homeland,’ it’s always ‘fatherland’ this, ‘fatherland’ that…” I kept talking, rambling almost, my eyes fixed on his pale face. Then, a flicker. A ghost of a smile, so faint, so incredibly tiny, touched the corners of his lips. It was barely there, but it was there. Thank gods.

“And I remember how furious you were with those Cyrusian envoys that one time, Levi,” I continued, clinging to any memory that might spark a reaction. “I’m fairly certain you were fantasizing about… perhaps… trampling them underfoot, weren’t you?”

“Hm…” he whimpered. Thank the gods. Whether it was a response to the memory, a reaction to the pain, or simply a reflex, it was a response.

I pressed on, each word a monumental effort against the rising tide of panic and grief threatening to drown me. I grasped at any memory, any shared joke, any trivial annoyance we had ever experienced. I could feel the increasing clamminess of his skin beneath my touch. His head, cradled in my hands, felt heavier with each passing moment. He was drifting further and further away, receding like a ship disappearing into a dense, unforgiving fog.

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Then, came a sound that made me gasp – the unmistakable, thunderous whup-whup-whump of helicopter rotors growing rapidly louder. Thank god. Oh, thank god. A flurry of activity erupted around our wrecked car. Figures in bright vests – paramedics, firefighters, and police officers – swarmed the scene. They extracted Levi from the mangled vehicle. They transferred him onto a waiting stretcher, securing him with straps. And then, with the powerful roar of the helicopter engines reaching a crescendo, they lifted him, my beloved Levi, into the night sky, a beacon of flashing lights disappearing into the darkness.

The sharp, metallic tang of the firefighters' cutting tools filled the air as they severed my seatbelt. Strong arms lifted me, but the world still seemed to tilt and spin. Paramedics immediately began their assessment. A cold stethoscope pressed against my chest, fingers checked the frantic pulse at my wrist, and a small penlight probed my pupils, eliciting a delayed, sluggish response. They peppered me with questions – "Can you hear me?", "What's your name?", "Where does it hurt?" – but their voices seemed distant, muffled, as if coming from the end of a long tunnel. All I could truly hear, was the deafening screech of tires, the sickening crunch of metal against glass.

The paramedics, urged me towards a waiting ambulance, their words about scans and potential internal injuries washing over me like a distant tide. Uniformed police officers milled around the wreckage, their flashlights cutting through the night as they began their investigation. None of it registered. The flashing lights, the concerned faces, the official inquiries – they were all just a chaotic blur against the stark backdrop of my terror. My mind was trapped in a relentless loop of "what ifs," each one a fresh stab of agonizing regret. What if I hadn't been so insistent on driving? What if I had let Levi take the wheel, as he had intended? Would he be lying on that stretcher, being whisked away into the night sky, if our roles had been reversed?

"Can you tell us what you remember, sir?" police officer asked, his flashlight beam momentarily catching my face. "Anything at all?"

I recounted the sequence of terror. My voice was flat, as if reciting a detached account of someone else's nightmare. What if that truck had been inches closer? What if we had collided with another vehicle instead of that storefront? A car might have crumpled, metal against metal, but at least it wouldn't have shattered into a million razor-sharp pieces.

The flashing blue and red lights painted the interior of the ambulance in disorienting strobes. I sat huddled on the narrow bench, a scratchy orange blanket clutched around my trembling body. A paramedic dabbed at the cuts on my arms and face with antiseptic wipes, the cool liquid stinging the raw edges of my skin. But her ministrations, like the persistent questions from the police officers still milling around the crash site, felt distant and unreal.

What if? What if? What if? What if? What if?

The periphery of the scene began to shift. Like vultures drawn to carrion, people started to converge – onlookers with morbid curiosity, their phones held aloft like recording talismans. And then, the press. They descended in a ravenous swarm, their cameras clicking and whirring, their voices a cacophony of shouted questions. The Saint of Ascaria, the untouchable icon, involved in a car accident with his husband, the notorious Raphael. The headlines practically wrote themselves in my mind. Raphael, the idiot. Raphael, the piece of shit. This fucking monster. This impulsive swine.

The police officers, formed a human shield around me as they attempted to navigate me away from the encroaching throng of reporters. Their hands were firm on my arms, while their colleagues barked orders at the persistent journalists, trying to maintain a semblance of order amidst the flashing lights and shouted questions.

A cold dread clenched my heart, a vise tightening with each passing second.

Did he… die?

Is he even alive right now? I had no idea. They had whisked him away, and I was left with nothing but the lingering scent of gasoline and the deafening silence of his absence. Academia. Was that where they had taken him? Was he even there yet? Where was Academia? I didn't know. The police, shoved me into the back of their cruiser. Paramedics, were equally insistent that I needed to be taken to a hospital for evaluation. A heated argument broke out between them, the officers prevailed: the police car, with its tinted windows and direct route, was the only way they could guarantee my protection from the voracious eyes and relentless cameras.

I was ushered into the nearest police precinct. I numbly recounted the events of the crash, my voice flat and monotone as I gave a written statement. A uniformed officer handed me a bitter coffee in a flimsy paper cup. They offered awkward pats on my back. The details were still hazy, fragmented images swirling in my mind: the blinding light, the wrenching loss of control. I knew I hadn't been drinking. I was certain I had been in my lane. The whole ordeal remained a bewildering blur, but a fragile assumption began to form in the fog of my shock: I hadn't been the one at fault. I couldn't have been.

A figure of authority approached – the police chief himself. He introduced himself, his handshake surprisingly gentle despite his imposing stature, and then stated the obvious: he knew Levi. This was the very man Levi had once said, the one he’d dressed down with a scathing, unforgettable pronouncement: “Stop trampling on citizens because you cannot beat your wife.” This same man, his expression now a carefully neutral mask, offered a strained reassurance, telling me that Levi was a strong man, a fighter. Then, with a gesture that felt both incongruous and oddly human, he offered me a cigarette from a silver case. My hand trembled as I reached for one. The lighter slipped from my nerveless fingers, clattering onto the linoleum floor.

The cigarette, was a low-tar brand, the kind I indulged in, a rebellious pleasure Levi always wrinkled his nose at. The Chief continued to speak, something about security camera footage from nearby businesses and the ongoing investigation. But his words were lost to me, as if the very ocean had taken residence within my ears.

Just then, a jarring sound pierced through the internal roar of the crash – the insistent trill of my phone. I fumbled clumsily, unable to even properly grip the surface of the device. It was Finn. His voice was laced with concern as he told me he had seen the breaking news reports flashing across his screen. He was calling to inquire about my safety, about Levi’s. My explanation was flat, toneless. A wave of unexpected warmth washed over me as he vehemently insisted on coming to the precinct to pick me up. But a stubborn resolve, born of shock and a fierce need to remain close to any potential news about Levi, hardened within me.

"No, Finn. I'll stay."

The concrete floor of the precinct felt like shifting sand beneath my feet. The air I drew in offered no sustenance, my lungs hollow vessels. The sounds of the bustling station – the ringing phones, the muffled conversations, the clatter of keyboards – were a distant hum, failing to penetrate the thick wall of shock that encased me.

Mechanically, I dialed Holden's number. He informed me that Levi was receiving initial critical care and relayed the address of Academia. The Chief, offered a police escort, a swift journey through the city. But the thought of being confined in another official vehicle, surrounded by more flashing lights, was unbearable. "No," I managed. "I'll take a taxi."

The hour-long taxi ride to Academia was an exercise in stillness. The confines of a car, were not frightening. Instead, they were paralyzing. My gaze was locked in a horrified fascination, not on the passing scenery, but on the details within the vehicle itself: the leather of the seats, the taut strap of the seatbelt, the glass of the windows, the reflective surface of the rearview mirror, the steering wheel. The driver, chatted amiably about the mundane events of his day, his words a meaningless drone in the face of my silent terror. I couldn't bring myself to respond, my voice trapped somewhere deep within the wreckage.

Finally, the taxi pulled up before Academia. It wasn't just a building; it was a colossal, imposing structure that seemed to claw at the night sky. Built in a formidable gothic style, its dark stone walls were punctuated by towering arched windows, many of them illuminated from within, casting long shadows across the manicured grounds. Three centuries of history clung to its weathered facade.

It wasn't Holden who greeted me at the imposing entrance of Academia, but a pair of bodyguards. They flanked me, guiding me through gardens, the air thick with the scent of night-blooming jasmine, then through a maze of sterile junctures and hushed corridors. Finally, they led me to the heavy, automated doors of what could only be the operating room Levi had instructed Holden to prepare.

A multitude of people filled the brightly lit space – a mix of surgeons in green scrubs, nurses, and a significant number of younger individuals. Students, I realized. The bodyguards, steered me away from the operating theater, pulling me instead towards a private patient care room nearby. They didn't allow me even a moment to linger at the OR doors. Within the relative calm of the private room, two other doctors approached me. They re-examined the superficial cuts the paramedics had already cleaned, their touch more thorough this time. Then, their attention shifted to my chest, now a canvas of angry purple and blue bruises. Their fingers probed the tender areas, their questions about my breathing and pain level.

A furious storm was gathering within me, a tempest of fear, frustration, and helpless rage. What were they doing to him behind those closed doors? Were they even able to help him? The agonizing uncertainty gnawed at me, my mind still trapped in its relentless cycle of "what ifs" and other self-inflicted tortures. A nurse pressed a small cup to my lips, urging me to drink a painkiller. The liquid was thick and bitter, leaving a metallic aftertaste on my tongue. A doctor, prescribed something stronger, something to dull the throbbing ache in my chest and the persistent thrum of anxiety that vibrated through my bones. "You were incredibly fortunate," he explained, his gaze direct. "Your chest took a significant impact with the steering wheel. Your heart, your ribs… they could have been crushed."

His words, meant to be comforting, were a stark reminder of how close I had come to a different, equally horrific outcome, and how Levi's simple insistence had unknowingly become my shield.

A crescendo of footsteps and muffled shouts flooded the corridor. My heart leaped into my throat. An overwhelming urge seized me – to tear myself free from the confines of this room, to run, to throw myself through those heavy doors and see for myself. But the bodyguards firmly prevented me. I strained my ears, trying to decipher the sounds filtering through the thick walls. They were… unusual. A low murmur that swelled into something louder, something… celebratory? Clapping. A wave of dizziness washed over me, followed by a surge of relief so intense it almost buckled my knees. Thank god. Oh, sweet merciful gods, thank god. He was alive.