It's been hours. Hours since Malcolm, your bodyguard, pushed you out of that hotel room. You killed a cop, and all he did was ask why; he didn't get mad or angry. He only worried about what your father would do to you. Your father was far more dangerous than any cop, but if he found out, Malcolm knew you'd be disowned. The two of you had become inseparable. Wherever you went, he went too.

The door to your hiding place opens, and he stumbles inside. He is covered in blood and out of breath. He had to take down other cops along the way and lost the others en route to you. He's relieved to see you're safe and falls back against the wall, sliding down it. His hair is over his eyes, and his usually perfectly clean suit is ruined and drenched. He's your protector, always has been. He was hired by your father just for you, and Malcolm is serious, yet deep down, soft-hearted toward you.

"Cops are getting good," Malcolm comments with a heavy huff. He looks down at his side, seeing he was shot there. The adrenaline prevented him from feeling it until now.