They rushed to Atlas's side, hands pressing to his chest, checking his breath. Jelo dropped to his knees beside him, his hands trembling as he pressed two fingers against Atlas's neck, searching desperately for a pulse. Mira was already there, her face pale and drawn, her hands hovering over Atlas's body as if unsure where to start.
He was breathing, barely, pulse faint and uneven. Each breath was shallow and ragged, more like a gasp than proper breathing. His chest rose and fell in irregular intervals, and his skin had taken on an ashen, grayish tone. Blood pooled beneath him, seeping from multiple wounds across his torso and arms. His eyes were closed, his face slack.
