Neal had spent the entire afternoon undercover at the upscale bistro, trying to remain inconspicuous while gathering intel. The lunch rush came and went without much fanfare—just another day, another task. But something about the dish he'd eaten nagged at him. A bitter aftertaste lingered at the back of his throat, but he brushed it off as stress.

After paying the bill, Neal walked out into the midday sun, his head already beginning to swim. He attributed the dizziness to dehydration, the heat, anything but something serious. He walked a few blocks, keeping his pace steady as he moved toward the surveillance van parked discreetly in an alleyway. But his vision blurred slightly, the edges of his world darkening with each step. He wiped at his brow, surprised to find it drenched in sweat.

Peter, always on high alert, had been keeping an eye on Neal's location from inside the van. He noticed the slight falter in Neal's gait. Something wasn't right.

Neal, still moving but now staggering, blinked hard, trying to focus. The sound of the city was getting distant, muffled. A heavy nausea churned in his gut. Then, everything spun wildly. He stumbled, barely catching himself on a streetlamp.

Peter was already out of the van, sprinting toward him. "Neal!"

Neal turned at the sound of Peter's voice, but his body had reached its limit. His legs gave out beneath him, and he collapsed onto the sidewalk, his limbs jerking uncontrollably.

"Diana! Call an ambulance, now!" Peter shouted as he dropped to his knees beside Neal. He grabbed Neal's arms, trying to keep him from flailing too hard, to keep him from injuring himself as the convulsions grew more violent.

Neal's eyes rolled back, his muscles twitching erratically. Foam started to bubble from his mouth, and Peter's heart raced. This wasn't just a passing illness—this was an attack.

"Stay with me, Neal! Breathe!" Peter urged, his voice tight with panic. Neal's chest heaved, struggling to draw in air as his body fought the poison coursing through his veins. His skin had turned a sickly shade of pale, and Peter could feel the heat radiating off him.

Diana's voice cracked through the comms. "Ambulance is on the way! Hold on!"

But seconds felt like hours as Peter watched his friend's life slipping away, powerless to do more than hold him steady. He kept talking to Neal, hoping his voice would anchor him, keep him fighting until help arrived.

"Come on, Neal. You're stronger than this. Just hold on a little longer."

The sirens wailed in the distance, but Peter wasn't sure if they'd make it in time.

The sound of the sirens grew louder, echoing through the crowded streets. People had begun to gather at a distance, eyes wide with concern and confusion as they witnessed the scene unfolding before them. Peter didn't care. His only focus was Neal—keeping him alive until the paramedics arrived.

Neal's convulsions had slowed, but his breathing was still ragged, erratic. His chest jerked with each shallow breath, the foam around his mouth staining his lips. Peter held him steady, his own breath tight with worry.

"Come on, Neal, just hang on," Peter muttered under his breath, feeling the weight of time pressing down on him. He glanced over his shoulder, desperate for the ambulance to appear. Diana stood a few feet away, watching with concern as she relayed updates over the phone.

Suddenly, Neal's body went still, far too still.

"No, no, no…" Peter muttered, his hands trembling as he felt for a pulse. His heart nearly stopped when he couldn't find one. "Neal!" he shouted, panic creeping into his voice.

Diana rushed to his side, her face pale as she crouched down beside them. "Peter, is he—?"

"I don't know! I need—" Peter cut himself off, adrenaline surging through him. He tilted Neal's head back, opening his airway, and started chest compressions, his hands moving rhythmically as he fought to bring Neal back.

The world around him seemed to disappear as Peter focused on the task at hand. Each compression was a desperate attempt to keep Neal's heart beating, to keep his friend alive. Peter counted the compressions aloud, his voice hoarse, trying not to cringe at the cracking sounds Neal's Ribs made.

"Come on, Neal. Come on!"

The paramedics arrived in a whirlwind of motion, pushing Peter aside as they quickly took over. One of them administered oxygen while the other pulled out a syringe, injecting something directly into Neal's arm. They worked with practiced precision, their voices calm and steady as they called out instructions to each other.

Peter stumbled back, his heart still racing as he watched helplessly. He wanted to do more, to somehow fix this, but all he could do was stand there, his fists clenched, hoping against hope that Neal would pull through.

After what felt like an eternity, one of the paramedics turned to Peter. "He's got a pulse. It's weak, but he's stable enough to transport."

Peter's knees almost buckled with relief, but he forced himself to stay upright. "Is he going to be okay?"

"We're doing everything we can," the paramedic replied, her face serious. "But he needs to get to the hospital immediately. Whatever toxin is in his system, it's powerful."

Peter nodded, his mind racing. "I'll follow."

The paramedics quickly loaded Neal onto the stretcher and into the ambulance. As the doors closed, Peter turned to Diana, who was already coordinating with the team.

"We need to find out who did this," Peter said, his voice low and steely. "Neal was poisoned, and whoever's behind it is still out there."

Diana's jaw tightened. "I'm on it. I'll pull security footage from the restaurant, see if we can figure out who had access to his food."

Peter gave a sharp nod, but his thoughts were still with Neal. As the ambulance sped away, lights flashing, Peter felt a wave of helplessness wash over him. Neal was fighting for his life, and for the first time in a long time, Peter wasn't sure if his friend would make it.

He jumped into the SUV, revving the engine and following closely behind the ambulance. His mind raced with questions. Who would go after Neal? What kind of poison had been used? And most importantly—how much time did Neal have left?

At the hospital, the emergency team was ready and waiting. They whisked Neal away the moment the ambulance pulled in, leaving Peter standing in the bright, sterile corridor, the scent of antiseptic filling the air. He clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to keep it together. Neal needed him to be strong right now.

Diana arrived shortly after, her face set in determination. "I've got the footage from the restaurant," she said, holding up her tablet. "There's something you need to see."

Peter's eyes narrowed as he looked at the screen. The video showed Neal seated at a table, the waiter bringing him his lunch. Everything seemed normal, but then, just before Neal took his first bite, a man at the next table shifted slightly, brushing against Neal's chair. The man's hand moved swiftly, almost imperceptibly, but there was no mistaking it—he'd dropped something into Neal's food.

"That's him," Peter growled. "Who is he?"

"We're running facial recognition now," Diana replied. "But whoever he is, he knew exactly what he was doing."

Peter's mind raced. This was no random act—this was deliberate, calculated. Neal had been targeted, and whoever was behind this wasn't finished yet.