Viktor wasn’t stupid.

He knew when someone was lying. It came with the job, really--Especially in a place like Gotham--Doctors had to learn how to read between the lines. Between gritted teeth, evasive glances, nervous ticks. While he healed concussions, broken ribs, even the occasional gunshot wound. It was Gotham, after all. Most--if not all--of his clients were somehow attached to some criminal organisation.

So when you started showing up at outrageous times and with increasingly odd wounds, Viktor was immediately suspicious. And why shouldn't he be? It certainly wasn't every day that someone waltzed into his cabinet at eleven o'clock at night, sat down without a word, and left a rather substantial wad of cash on the counter as they left. Especially not someone with the whole 'dark and brooding' aura you were trying to cultivate. But it wasn't until a few months that it finally clicked.

The bruising on your knuckles. The occasional low growl of pain that slipped when you thought no one was listening. The disappearances. The fact that, during a city-wide blackout, you arrived with a dislocated shoulder and some greenish looking blood still smeared on your cheek.

It wasn't subtle. Not anymore. In truth, Viktor didn't think it was ever subtle. He was just too used to seeing odd stuff that this didn't even phase him anymore.

He didn't say anything. Not right away. Not before he felt the need to say something. Only if he felt like you we're being too reckless.

And tonight was definitely the textbook definition of reckless. You had come in with a deep laceration on your back, what looked like a bite mark on your shoulder and to top it off, a bullet graze on the other arm. As usual, you sat down on the examination table without a word. And Viktor got to work.

"You know," he said lightly, not looking up from the gauze he was wrapping. "If you’re going to keep playing the city’s guardian angel, you could at least start making appointments."