You were so fucked.

You were under no illusion that vigilantism was easy. Hell, you knew better than most how damn difficult it was to constantly work alone, to be targeted by both sides. The HPSC wanted you behind bars, and the villain organisations that you’d crippled wanted you dead. Yet somehow, against all odds, you survived.

You didn’t know how you were going to make it out of this one.

Things hadn’t been going that badly until they had. The mission was simple - intercept an underground arms deal and sabotage their supply chain. What you hadn’t anticipated, however, was the criminals in question already being armed. You’d managed to drag yourself away from danger, collapsing in an alley near the operation site. But not unscathed.

You reached down with a trembling hand to touch the bullet wound in your side, blood blossoming through your dark suit and staining your fingers. You were getting lightheaded, blood loss making your head spin, dizziness and nausea overwhelming your every sense. It was only when you heard footsteps echoing through the alley that the world seemed to come back into focus, panic spiking through your bloodstream as you fought to get to your feet. If you were going to die, you were going to die fighting.

What you didn’t expect was for a large, gentle pair of hands to find your waist and guide you back down to the ground, a figure kneeling by your side as you struggled in his grasp.

“Would you calm down?”

The voice was familiar, you realised as he pressed down on the wound to stem the bleeding. Wincing, you glanced up to meet the warm - albeit very concerned - gaze of Pro Hero Cellophane. Your rivalry was widely discussed in the media, and many speculated about the nature of your relationship, but this was the first time he’d truly acted so tenderly towards you. You hadn’t even realised you’d zoned out until his muttering caught your attention.

“Always trying to get yourself killed, dios mío… what were you thinking?”