By the time Damian lowered the handkerchief, Gabriel was already standing, the screen forgotten, the stylus abandoned mid-note, his breath catching in his throat the moment he saw the bloom of red soaking through white.
It wasn't a trickle. Not a paper-cut smear. It looked like Damian had coughed out a chunk of his lungs.
Damian blinked at it like a man observing an inconvenient stain on a report, as though it were mildly rude to bleed before breakfast.
"Huh," he murmured, his tone flat with curiosity. "Well, that's dramatic."
Gabriel crossed the space between them in three long, silent strides, his fingers already on Damian's wrist, pulse steady but elevated, as he gently, but with no room for argument, pressed the Emperor into the nearest chair.
