All he could see was red. Red on the carpet, red on the sheets, there was even little specks of red on the curtains. And all the red belonged to Spike. Red was seeping out of long cuts on Spike's chest and stomach, two thick lines streaming from two, identical puncture wounds on his neck. His chest heaved with each breath he struggled to take in, an unnecessary gesture but one he always did. His mouth moved in silent words, too tired to voice them.

Angelus sat in a chair by the bed, a dagger stained with red in his hand.