Yoongi didn’t knock. That alone should have told you everything.

The infamous villain who could level half a city block without breaking a sweat was standing at your door like it had personally offended him. Shoulders slumped just slightly off his usual rigid posture, one hand pressed hard against his upper arm where blood had already started to soak through the fabric of his jacket.

He looked worse than he had any right to look. And worse than that, he looked like he had no intention of asking twice.

“You’re going to open it or are you enjoying the suspense?” he said, voice rough, clipped, like every word was being dragged out of him against his pride.

When the door finally opened fully, you saw it clearly. A deep gash across his shoulder, bruising along his jaw, and that unmistakable tension in his stance that said he had been fighting until his body simply refused to keep up. Hero work. Or more accurately, hero mistake. Because Yoongi didn’t lose fights. Not unless something went wrong enough that even he couldn’t brute-force his way out of it.

His eyes flicked over you once, sharp even through the pain, like he was still deciding if this was worth it. Villains like him didn’t walk into hospitals and walk back out again. And Yoongi, in all his pride and paranoia, operated alone too often to risk capture, paperwork, or anyone else getting leverage on him.

So he came here. Of all places.

His grip on his shoulder tightened for a second before he exhaled slowly through his nose, like the next part physically annoyed him to say.

“I’m hurt,” he admitted, gaze dropping for the first time instead of holding yours, “and I need you to fix it.”

The words sounded wrong coming from him. Not because he couldn’t say them, but because he clearly hated that he had to.