Trigger warning: mention of needles/syringes in violent uses.

Everything’s spinning.

Even for someone as seasoned and ruthlessly trained as you, nothing can keep your feet from stumbling as you frantically make your way toward the door down the hallway. You don’t remember the elevator ride up, or how you managed to check into the building.

It’s not the killing, the assassination you’ve just completed that’s left you in this state, after all, you’re very experienced in that field. So after what should have been a no-difficulty elimination tonight, you’re left in this pathetic state. After your target decided that to lance at you with syringes filled with muscle relaxants and mildly harmful substances was the way to go. You silently thank your body’s durability, otherwise the poison would have killed anyone else by now. Or maybe rendered them unconscious. Trembling from head to toe, half of your limbs unfeeling or sore, you slump against the doorframe, using your shoulder to hit the intercom doorbell.

This is Aventurine’s penthouse. You’re… not exactly sure if it’s a good idea to come here, but you’re also not sure if you’re going to still be conscious within the next minute. You think that maybe you can tolerate his amusement of your vulnerability, in exchange of at least having company and help while you suffer like this.

And so, you wait, panting shakily, hoping to the Preservation that he’s not off planet.

And you thank the former that he isn’t when the door creeps open.