It all happens very fast, as things like this always seem to, but for Edward time slows down. He's aware of the thick, heavy thuds of his own heart, the dizzying rush in his ears. Someone's there, someone who just saved him from being impaled here and now. He recognises the man, he realises, though numbly.

He's been given moments, seconds to act. A man desperate to survive would do what it took — would scramble back, would grab his gun, would use it. Hell, maybe he'd even run.

Little does none of those things. When he reaches for his gun again, it's only because autopilot is telling him he needs it, and he does hold it up, but— his eyes are too wide, vessels blown, breath shuddering.

He can't. He can't do it again. The gun's loose in his fingers, tipping downwards again. If Raju tries to grab it from him he could easily take it, and maybe that would be the best thing — a man who would use the weapon wielding it instead.