He lays on his hip, eyes focusing on the trail of blood he left on the rocks behind him. He doesn't know what was hit - must have been an artery of some sort - because he remembers gut wounds usually don't kill so quickly.

This isn't how he wanted to go. Maybe the conditioning left some part of him wanting to crawl away like this, unobtrusive, unnoticed. But Punchy always imagined something greater for himself - a breezy smile, a few dramatic last words that can be published in a newspaper. Not scared wordless pants.

He looks up at Holiday.