Bullsen whirled in my direction. “I’ll tell you when to speak. And fucking you,” he pointed at Endgame, “you’re bad fucking luck. You need to get the hell out of here, too. I don’t owe you shit either.”

Bullsen was yelling at Endgame, but staring at me. It was unnerving. He seemed like a butcher sizing up what parts of my body would make the best dinner.

Endgame stood up. I tried to grab his shirt. I didn’t want him to leave. Then I would know no one.

“Nah, man. You gotta let me get outta here with her. This was a mistake. A big, hairy mistake. That chick, Roberta was bad news. You don’t want the kind of heat she’ll generate on you.” Endgame stepped in front of me, putting his body between Bullsen and me.

“You little ass pimple. I’m not taking orders or suggestions from you. Get out. Now. Last warning.” Bullsen was towering over Endgame.

I knew I should be paying attention, looking for exits, but the tone in Bullsen’s voice brought tears to my eyes. This was a different type of human than I was used to dealing with. He was scary.

“Yeah. I’m not leaving her. That’s not happening.” I saw Endgame straighten his spine.

I reached and touched the leg of his pants.

He turned a little bit so I could see his profile.

“Go. Just go. He’s going to hurt you,” I whispered.

Endgame gave me a small head shake. “Nah. My mistake. I’m paying for it, not you.” He faced Bullsen again. “You gotta do what you gotta do, but if you want her, you gotta go through me.”

It was a ludicrous suggestion. Endgame was outnumbered five to one. And that was just the people I could see from here. I had no idea how many more people were around this building.

Bullsen was almost nose-to-nose with him. “Get out of my way. Last chance.” He was so angry spittle was spewing from his lips.

Endgame shook his head slowly. “I’m good, my dude. I’m good.”

It almost looked like a hug or a handshake. There weren’t any telling noises except a forceful exhale from Endgame.

Bullsen let go of the embrace and Endgame fell to his knees. I moved forward without thinking, kneeling behind him. He fell back against my chest and then rolled to the floor. His white shirt was now stained a deep, murky red. Bullsen had a knife in his hand, and it was marked with blood.

Endgame’s eyes were rolling in the back of his head.

“Endgame? Endgame!” I tried his real name. “Torin!” I was concerned he had hurt his head when he hit the cement floor, but the pool of blood forming under his torso was growing quickly and clearly the most pressing issue.