For a second, the bodies on the ground don't matter. The toothy, bony, viscerally uncomfortable blade in his hand doesn't matter. The mark on his arm, his bad attitude, the way things have been going to shit, the fact that they're in an impossible maze, none of it matters.

What matters is her sprinting at him, and the mindless, automatic response of winding his arms around her tightly, and full-on lifting her off the ground an inch or two. A moment passes, and he pulls back to cup her cheek, to get a better look at her close up. Scanning for any injuries that he might've missed from across the distance.

"Hey. You okay?"