The unseen creature charges—not at him, but at Jo. Paws pounding on the ground right past him. As though it hardly even notices he's there, a hound on a trail. He's expecting her to roll out of the way, grab her weapon, something. But she's pressed against the wall; her pulse spikes, thrumming.

He moves on impulse, dives in its path. Brings the dagger down blindly, wet fur under his hands. It yowls, a noise that pierces the air. Jaws snap, blood spilling hot and heavy. He holds it down until it stills, panting breaths silent.

(Invisible hounds. That's new.)

Shit. He pushes himself upright. He's sticky with blood, his own and the wolves. No injuries deep enough to worry about, though. His eyes go back to Jo. Has he got questions? Yes. But. They need to get the fuck out of here first. And he's not certain she'll appreciate being asked. He knows what genuine fear looks like. Whatever that thing was, she clearly recognized it. Encountered it once, likely.

He picks up the fallen gun. Offers it back to her—a gesture that functions almost as a hand to her feet, but not quite.

Are you okay? circles his mind before he settles on, "Can you stand?"