Train station, August seven. Train station, August seven.
The mantra silently repeats in Ukyo's mind. This demise is avoidable, so long as he commits these details to memory.
Train station, August seven.
He sinks to his knees, watching his blood stain the pavement. The color's so vibrant in the light of the setting sun, some dizzy part of his brain wants to get a picture.
Train station.
There's screams and pounding footsteps as his attacker flees the scene, clutching his bloody blade. Ukyo knows from months of painfully-acquired first aid education that, ideally, he would've left the blade behind. You're supposed to leave the implement inside a deep stab wound and let the doctors handle it. It helps block the bleeding, both internal and external.
August seven.
In future Augusts it'll be best to just avoid this place on this day, right? His attacker must have chosen him at random: Ukyo doesn't know this man, nor can he think of anything he did that might have provoked him.
Is that last thought technically hypocritical?
He's fully lying on the ground now, trembling and gasping. The pain is incredible. There's so much blood pooled around him, but that's not his biggest problem. His attacker's blade was long and sharp, and took a deep path up through his stomach into his chest, skewering organs along the way. His intestines? His liver? A lung? Ukyo doesn't know anatomy well enough to identify which organs are radiating agony from his abdomen, but there's a familiar urgency to the pain that tells him he'll die soon.
His breathing's uncomfortably shallow all of a sudden. He coughs and tastes blood.
A crowd has formed around him. There are shouts and gasps and frantic questions, all indistinct to him. Distantly he whispers, "August seven…" as his eyelids flutter.
"Hey!"
A tall man pushes his way through the crowd and kneels beside him. He's… wait.
Is that Kent?
Ukyo almost laughs at the appearance of such a familiar face. Isn't Kent the one she's chosen in this world? Ukyo's already forgotten. More importantly, though, she's not here with him now. Good. She won't have to watch this one.
"That man is summoning an ambulance," Kent says. He points to another startled bystander on the sidewalk. "I'm going to apply pressure to your wound until it arrives." His voice is even and calm. He's handling this remarkably well. Only the beads of sweat on his forehead indicate how stressed he is.
Ukyo yelps without meaning to when Kent does as he promised, pressing his palms to the stab wound and leaning his weight on them. Such a shame. Kent's getting blood all over his clothes, and for what?
"That's very kind of you, Kent," Ukyo wheezes, "But it's already too late for me."
Kent's eyes widen with a gasp at this. So much for keeping his composure.
"Did you… do I… Do I know you?" His glasses slide down his sweaty nose and he can't push them back up, busy as he is trying to hold all Ukyo's blood in. Ukyo realizes, for the first time, that seeing Kent's eyes without the barrier of his glasses is somehow even rarer than seeing Ikki's. He smiles at the thought.
"You don't. That's why you should try to forget this, as much as you can. Go home, Kent. Wash this blood off. Water your plants and hug your girlfriend."
Is that a blush? He only said "hug," right? Not even "kiss." Ukyo forgot how easily flustered this one is.
"I…" Kent has no idea what to say. He settles on repeating: "I'll apply pressure until the ambulance arrives."
Ukyo feels warm, in spite of the cool evening.
"Do what you want." A smirk pulls at his bloodstained lips. "But I'm going to be dead by then." A depressing sentiment, but the way he says it makes it sound like a challenge.
To Ukyo's delight, Kent looks like he actually wants to argue with him. He did not forget how easily baited this one is.
Sadly, it all goes dark before Kent can present his rebuttal.