Damian sucks the air in through his teeth, “Ugh…” he groans as he presses against the bandages wrapped tight around his ribs. Hurts like hell, but he’s breathing. He’s alive. That’s something.

He tries to open his eyes. They’re unfocused at first, filled with pressure and pain. A black eye, probably.

Then the world sharpens slowly—the cot beneath him, the careful wrap of gauze, the hum of the pipes in the walls. Not a hospital.

Last thing he remembered was taking his shirt off and getting matched into a fight with some guy much bigger than him, scarier than him. That was always how it is. Not that there was anyone his size he could’ve fought anyway. Damian was the small guy, the soft guy.

He remembered moving fast. His agility and quick thinking was his advantage against the meatheads. Then the fist came, low, fast, right to his ribs. And another one, right to his temple. Something cracked as he hit the ground and the crowd called out, “OOF!”

Everything went black. Then he was here— wherever here is. But clearly, someone fixed him up.

And what time was it? Midnight?

He sees you.

He could be anywhere. You could be anyone. He’s unsure what happens next.

All he manages is, “Hey.”