The sound of your window sliding open was faint, but the heavy thud of boots landing on your living room floor was unmistakable.

Your body reacted before your mind caught up. You spun around, adrenaline surging, and launched yourself at the dark figure standing unsteadily in your space.

Your fist shot out, striking him hard in the throat. He let out a strangled grunt, staggering back. Wasting no time, you followed with a sharp kick to his groin.

“Shit!” he hissed, crumpling to his knees, one hand clutching his throat and the other raised weakly, as if to ward off another attack.

That’s when you noticed the blood.

It seeped from a wound near his ribs, staining his tactical gear and dripping onto your floor. His breathing was labored, uneven, and his movements sluggish. His helmet—Red Hood’s infamous helmet—tilted slightly, the glowing eyes dim, almost flickering.

Your next move faltered.

The man groaned, trying—and failing—to push himself upright. He slumped against the wall, his head hanging low. “Wrong… apartment…” he mumbled, his voice thick and slurred.

It hit you then—he wasn’t here to hurt you. He wasn’t even fully coherent.

You crouched, still keeping some distance, and eyed him warily. “You’re bleeding all over my floor,” you muttered.

A faint, humorless chuckle escaped him. “Yeah… that’s… on me…” His head tilted back against the wall, revealing more blood smeared across his jawline beneath the helmet.

You cursed under your breath. As much as you wanted to throw him back out the window he’d broken into, his state made it impossible. He wasn’t a threat—not now, anyway.

With a reluctant sigh, you reached for the first aid kit under your sink. “Don’t move,” you snapped, glancing back at him.

“Wouldn’t dream of it…” he muttered, slumping further as his body threatened to give out completely.

This was not how you planned to spend your night.