Every breath is hot ash stinging in his nose and the roof of his mouth and his throat, a coughing fit forcing its way past jaws opened in soundless agony. There's no precious orange bottle crammed in his pocket. He was only supposed to be out for a minute. It was supposed to be a normal day. Except, right - even blithely hoping for something like that is just too much for someone like him to ask.

But there's no shavings taken from the back of his head, nothing wavering in the corners of his vision. Despite the black and the orange and the smoke and the building crumbling from beneath them both - nothing tall and impossible and faceless looms in his periphery, reaching for him, whispering at him, burning its blank face into the back of his closed lids.

There's nothing there. Just another guy. Another stupid guy.

And coughing.

And fire.

It's fine. It'll be fine.

Tim staggers forward. He forces himself to. He can't not.

"Uh," he ekes out through clenched teeth, his voice dry and rusty with the smoke. One corner of his mouth twitches in a wry, self-deprecating slant. "I thought maybe I'd save your life, or, you know. Something."

Yeah, because one look at Tim just screams hero. Especially now - soot-blackened and nearly doubled over and hacking his lungs out.

"There's a way out." He jabs a thumb over one shoulder, pointing back the way he came. "It's hot, but gotta be better than jumping, yeah?"