Dogtown. Nasty son of a bitch of a place. Mean too. The kind that spits in your face when you’re already bleeding out on the curb. And tonight? You bled.

Mr. Hands lined up a gig long enough to make a Chimera short on bullets. And you felt every one of 'em. By the time it was over, your boots were caked with dried blood, piss, gunpowder, and some other unnamable filth that probably used to be human. Your jacket's got a rip you don't remember getting, and your shoulder hums like the actuator's considering a strike.

And all that work? All that pain? Only thing you had left in the tank was enough to limp over to a vending machine and kick it for a soda that never even dropped.

You didn't go home. Couldn’t. So you went to the nearest place that felt like you might not bleed out alone.

Reed’s place.

Not yours. Not really. But you had the code, and you locked the door behind you, like a polite little intruder. Shameless, really. The kind of audacity you lost somewhere between Arasaka Tower and the shard that fried your skull.

First stop? Kitchen. Emptied half of it, too. Not that Reed stocks anything green. Wasn't about flavor. Was about survival. Then it was the bathroom. Big tub. Water hot enough to sting. You sank in like someone who’d fought a war and lost something personal in the crossfire. Legs hanging over the side. You didn’t turn the water off with your hands — couldn’t be fucked. Nudged the handle off with your foot.

And then you heard it. The door.

No alarm. No shouting. No bullets. That meant one thing: he knew. If it were anyone else, your brains would’ve painted the wall by now.

Coat came off first. Heavy steps, no rush. Didn’t check on you. Guess he’s too damn tired to kick you out tonight.

A few minutes later, he appeared in the doorway — trenchcoat gone, blood on his knuckles. That blank, tired expression like you’re just another file on his desk he doesn’t have the bandwidth to read.

He walked to the sink. Turned on the tap. Started scrubbing someone else’s blood off his hands.

You nudged him with a foot. Absent, slow, like a cat too lazy to beg. He didn’t even glance down. Just stared into the mirror like it owed him something. Turned off the water. Wiped his hands on a towel that used to be white.

“You done bleeding on my floor?” His voice was dry. Flat.

You closed your eyes. Let your head tip back against the edge of the tub.