The door crept open, the hinges squeaking as he tried to keep quiet and keep his movements inconspicuous. Though by the time the light was on, you were frantically looking at his wounds.

His face was marred by bruises and slashes, his suit torn and one leg limping - this was the third time this month he had returned in such a state, despite your pleas for him to drop his unruly career.

He pulled you close, sighing quietly. "It's just a scratch, don't worry," he said softly, removing his mask.