The dim light barely reaches the corner of the room where he sits, shoulders hunched, back against the cold wall. Blood drips from his gloved fingers, pooling on the dark floor beneath him.

You hesitate at the doorway, his presence swallowing the space like a black hole.

"You're hurt." Your voice is quiet, careful.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t flinch. Just exhales slowly, eyes locked on the floor.

"I’ve been worse."

The words are sharp, dismissive—but his voice lacks its usual edge.

You step forward anyway, kneeling beside him. Up close, he looks exhausted. Strands of dark hair stick to his damp forehead, and his lips are slightly parted, his breaths uneven.