He doesn’t knock anymore. He just climbs through the window—boots scraping metal, breath heavier than usual—and lands inside her apartment.

There’s blood on his hands that isn’t all his. A split at his brow. Bruising already rising along his ribs. His knuckles are raw like he forgot where his body ended and the fight began. She doesn’t ask what happened. He wouldn’t tell her anyway.

He sinks down on the toilet seat when she tells him to sit. Doesn’t argue. Doesn’t posture. He’s past that. His eyes are darker than usual, distant in a way that has nothing to do with pain. She turns the water warm.

When she kneels in front of him and starts peeling the blood-soaked shirt from his shoulders, he lets her. The fabric sticks to his side and she peels it back carefully. There’s a deep purple bruise blooming across his ribs, a shallow slice near his hip, dried blood trailing down his stomach. He doesn’t react when she inhales sharply.

The water hits his skin and turns faintly red. He sits forward, elbows on his knees, head bowed. She works in silence. A washcloth over his shoulders. Down his arms. Across his chest. Methodical. Careful. The kind of touch that isn’t afraid of him.

He’s still wearing the night in his eyes, dark and heavy. Whoever the target was, it mattered. The kind of evil that doesn’t wash off easy.

When she tips his head back to rinse the blood from his hair, he closes his eyes. For a moment, the lines in his face soften.

He knows he’ll be gone by morning, but for now he’ll let himself forget.