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“Are you sure he’s here?” Jacques asks Daniel, grimacing at the blood we’re walking on.

“This is where Nova said he would be,” he replies.

Jacques goes ramrod straight and slowly turns towards him. “She had eyes on him the whole time and didn’t tell us?”

“Where the fuck are the bodies?” Daniel chimes in.

Oh, god. What if this is all Xander’s blood?

We come up to a closed door. Jacques reaches out his gloved hand and slowly pushes the door open with a squeak.

A figure is slumped in the corner of the room.

“Oh my god,” I whisper, speeding towards him.

“Cam, wait,” Jacques calls, but I can’t hear him. And nothing else matters right now but getting to Xander. Could it be a complete stranger? It could be. But if there’s any chance that it’s Xander, I need to know.

A flashlight from behind me illuminates my way to the mysterious figure. As I approach, my breath catches in my throat.

It’s Xander, covered in blood. Head to toe. His hair is matted with it. And his eyes are closed, head slumped to the side.

“Oh my god, Xander.” I drop to my knees next to him, grabbing his wet face in my hands and slapping it gently. “Xander.”

I feel Jacques squatting behind me, pointing the flashlight at his face. He’s bruised, with cuts all over his face. It’s hard to tell if he has injuries anywhere else since he’s covered in blood.

“Jacques, help him,” I panic, continuing to slap Xander’s face.

“Get off me,” he slurs.

I gasp. “Xander, it’s me.”

He groans.

“Is it my Angel? Is she safe?” he mumbles through half-closed lips. A glimmer of hope floods my chest.

“Yeah, it’s me. Wake up,” I tremble. “Fuck, Jacques, help him!”

“The doctor is on his way. We need to get him into the car.”

“What the fuck happened here?” Ezra asks.

Ezra and Jacques grab Xander and carry him into the car. My heart is pounding, and I can’t keep my eyes off his chest to make sure he’s breathing.

“Wait,” I say as we approach the car.

I climb into the backseat, and they place Xander across the seats next to me with his head on my lap.

His once perfectly carved face is now covered in bruises, swelling, and cuts.

My stomach knots every time we pass a street light that illuminates his face. Nothing but the smell of blood clings to him.

We get home, and the guys take him into their first aid room inside the office building. The doctor is already there waiting to examine him, but he asks us to step outside.

The wait is agony, but the doctor finally emerges.

“He’s okay. Very badly beaten, but nothing serious. He should be awake in the morning.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Jacques says, shaking his hand. The doctor leaves, and we both peek through the open door.