Paul numbly allows Midoriya to staunch the wound in a grisly echo of a handclasp, the silver draining out of his eyes like water from a cracked vessel. He swallows thickly, dreading what might slough down his throat from the wrecked throb of his mouth. He barely wants to skim his awareness over it; he cannot feel anything else so keenly.

"Punishment." No blood pours out, no greasy smoke. His voice is fractured and shivering, but it's his, and the agony is losing its keenest edge. "Part of the price."

All of him is shivering, a mimicry of shock. He shouldn't be so affected by the volume of blood lost so far, but he can already trace this deeper than the flesh. The fingertip of a god brushed under his chin, the faint candle flame of her might passed across his vision. His soul aches, jarred violently against its ephemeral moorings. He knows without knowing that he has been passed over by something far worse than this.

"It's done," he echoes, cold slicing down to his bones, exhaustion welling up in the gaps left behind. "Nothing will happen to him. She showed me." His hand spasms in Midoriya's with pain he doesn't feel. "It's time to go."