The creature’s claws scrape the stone floor as it lunges, the guttural roar reverberating through the crumbling workshop. Blood pools around Theron’s side, a hot, metallic sting that makes each breath feel like a ragged gasp. He feels the weight of his wounds dragging his senses down, but the adrenaline of the fight keeps his mind sharp. The flickering remnants of the sabotaged engine sputter weakly, casting erratic shadows that dance over the broken tools and shattered glass.

Theron’s eyes dart to his shortsword and dagger, still lying a few feet away. The metal feels cold and familiar, a promise of a chance to strike back. Yet the pain in his shoulder flares, and the relentless bleed threatens to sap his strength entirely. He knows that if the bleeding continues, his life will slip away faster than any blade could finish him.

A quick thought flickers through his mind—perhaps he can staunch the flow with a makeshift bandage. He has a length of rough cloth tucked inside his pack, and his dexterous fingers could tie it tight enough to buy him precious seconds. The creature snarls, poised to close the distance, and Theron must decide whether to press the attack, retreat, shove the beast, or gamble on a desperate attempt at self‑care.