He only had one hand, but he used it to punch at Ren and attempt to pry the man’s fingers off from around his neck. When that didn’t work, he savagely jammed his thumb into Ren’s stab wound. But it was like Ren was powered by something beyond the physical realm because he didn’t so much as flinch.

Micah’s vision blurred.

His fingers went back to trying to pry Ren’s hands from his throat.

He could see Ren’s lips moving from where he hovered over him – probably reciting some sort of prayer, the fucking psycho – but Micah couldn’t hear the words. It was like he was underwater.

It was violent, but also peaceful in a strange sort of way – almost serene.

Micah wondered if the others had felt this way, too.

Death seemed inevitable, and it’d be so, so easy to give into it. No more pain. No more suffering.

But also no more watching the Mets with his dad, no more solving crimes with Tessa, no more arguing with Jensen. No more Damon.

So as tempted as he was to give in, Micah refused. He fought against that false sense of calm with all he was worth – even as his grip on Ren’s hands weakened, even as his face turned blue, even as his eyelids began fluttering incessantly.

He would not go quietly… he. would. not. go.

And then, right as he balanced on the edge of consciousness, something happened. A sound so stark, so loud and sharp and familiar, ripped through the air that Micah was able to hear it even through the metaphorical water in his ears.

A gun shot.

The hands around his neck suddenly loosened, and Micah sucked in a breath at the same time Ren collapsed on top of him, blood and brain matter leaking out the side of his head where a bullet had carved a perfectly round hole into his skull.

Micah was thrust back into awareness, shock shielding him from the horror of the fact a dead body was currently pinning him to the ground. Luckily, Ren was only atop him for a few seconds before being carelessly thrown to the side, and suddenly all Micah could see, hear, smell was Damon.

The man kneeled over him, eyes wild as they obsessively scanned his form over and over again. A muscle in Damon’s jaw spasmed when he took in Micah’s discolored lump of a shoulder, and a tiny, punched out sound of devastation escaped him when he saw the unzipped fly.

Large, calloused hands were everywhere, first smoothing back Micah’s hair, and then stroking his good arm, and finally gingerly cupping his face. All the while, Damon spoke to him, voice uncharacteristically soft, his words a mix of English, Italian, and even Spanish.

“Ti ho adesso, tesoro. Ti ho adesso.”

“No one will ever touch you again.”

“Estas seguro ahora. You are safe now, my heart.”