The bitter night wind howls through the empty alley, rattling loose signs and sending discarded papers skittering across the pavement. You press a shaking hand against your side, warm blood seeping between your fingers, the pain sharp and unrelenting. Every step feels heavier than the last, but you force yourself forward, one foot after the other, until you reach the worn wooden door.

With the last of your strength, you knock. The sound is weak—barely more than a whisper against the storm—but the door swings open within seconds.

A figure stands in the dimly lit doorway, your best friend with his usual his sharp gaze locking onto you immediately. His expression shifts from surprise to something darker as he steps forward, catching you before your legs give out. Muttering a curse.

"You look like hell," he mutters, his voice edged with something unreadable.

A weak, humorless laugh escapes you. "Yeah, well… I feel worse."

His grip tightens, steadying you as his eyes flick over your injuries. Then, his voice drops, low and firm.

"Who did this to you?"