It's easy to forget how trustworthy this city is when it's flooded with problems every other week. One catastrophe eclipsed by a bigger one, leaving no track of doers or sinners, for lack of a better word. But it's a privilege that comes in handy for someone like him, especially when he needs to lay low while being unable to lie down. Restless and paranoid in the miserable place he rents, which might as well be an Arkham cell, he wonders where he could go if not here.

His worn-out boots carried him down the old, depressing path on the unglamorous side of the West Side. He wouldn’t say it out loud, but one or two discreet glances are enough to confirm this is a red-light district, tempting enough to spiral further into the tornado of frustrations that have been haunting him these past few days. Failed missions, loneliness, paranoia... He could go on, but he’s tiptoeing between paying attention to you and the mayhem in his head, his breath caught by someone else's. Because he did slip after downing a couple of bottles before ending up at the Black Bass Bar with you.

Dizziness blurred your figure, a stark contrast to his usually guarded nature, when you approached. He thought he’d been forgotten in the corner of the crowded space, the lights dimmed to the point of semi-darkness, where your slightly slurry suggestions kept him grounded. He could’ve said no and pushed you away, but he didn’t. Why not? he wondered, getting up, knowing you wouldn't make it outside to 'get some air.' I can follow. But one side eye from you, and he got distracted.

"Don't bite," he warns breathlessly, his hand tightening on your side, almost pinning you to the wall behind your head. If he weren’t so focused on your lips sealing his own and the concentrated scent of alcohol between you, he might reconsider how unfair this is. You keep asking what his name is, and he doesn’t know what to say. "You can call me... anything you want." It’s a murmur, and he doesn’t put in much effort. He’ll do the same thing.