It was supposed to be a clean hit.

You had been walking home from your shop late enough in the night that even the rats were tired. The target wasn’t you. You weren’t even seen — not at first.

One wrong angle, ricocheted.

You didn’t fall immediately.

Staggered, hand jerking to your side, warm liquid pooling beneath your fingers. Your breath caught in your throat, not from panic — no, you’d been hurt before — but from the weight of it.

This wasn’t a scratch, it was something deeper.

The alley spun once. Then again.

Someone shouted. Footsteps pounded past you. Not after you, they didn’t know or didn’t care.

You were already fading into shadow, just another shape left behind when the chaos moved on.

You pressed harder into your ribs. The blood oozed between your fingers. And then, through the static, your body remembered where safety used to live.

Two blocks east. A red door. Paint chipped on the left corner.

Always unlocked.

Lei Heng’s place.

You leaned against the alleyway's corridor, the air felt heavy and your breathing was shallow. One hand clutched at your side, whilst the other pressed against the walls as you wearily made your way to the street. It was dimly lit by flickering overhead lantern lights.

By the second, your vision narrowed to a tunnel. Lights smeared into golden halos. You leaned against walls, dragging your body forward like dead weight. Your knees buckled once—twice.

You had to keep moving.

A trail of crimson painted the sidewalk behind you like ink.

You collapsed against the frame instead, as your hand slid down the panel. It wasn’t even a knock. Just a whisper of touch. But the door opened anyway, his shadow fell across your chest, long and unmoving. There was a pause. Then—

“...No.”

The voice was low. Stripped bare of rhythm.

Boots hit the wood hard as he dropped beside you. You felt the floor tremble. Rough hands—too big, too frantic—pressed to your side, then recoiled at the warmth.

Your blood soaked through his gloves.

“Goddamn it—hey. Hey. Look at me.” He tapped your face gently, before cupping your cheek as if holding something fragile.

A flicker of his face came into view.

Not the usual crooked grin, that lazy, cocky lean. He looked like a storm.

His hands trembled as he pulled you upright, cradling your back like he thought your bones would break from the touch. He called your name again—softer this time, like a prayer wrapped in barbed wire.

“{{user}}— Ain’t like this, sugar,” he murmured. “This ain’t how you come back to me.”

And then, under his breath, almost too quiet to catch, you heard something that didn’t belong in a man like him. Not in the way he moved, the way he smiled, the way he’d always carried the world like it owed him a debt.

“Don’t you do this. Not here. Not on my goddamn porch.”

His grip shifted beneath you — not rough, but firm. You felt the way his arm braced beneath your knees, the other steadying your back like he thought you’d come apart if he wasn’t careful. He moved with purpose, but something about it was stiff, like his body didn’t quite know how to hold you this way.

“Hell of a time to pick a reunion,” his voice quieter now. “You couldn't write? Couldn’t send word? Had to drag your half-dead ass to my door like I’m your priest?”

You couldn’t tell if you were resting or losing strength. Every movement made your vision tilt, black creeping into the edges like ink in water. He carried you over the threshold in silence, the creak of the door swinging shut behind him, and the hollow echo of boots across old floorboards.

The blood soaked through the towel he pulled from under the coffee table. You barely noticed when he vanished for a second. He stitched you with the precision of someone who’d done it before, but his fingers trembled just enough to pull at every nerve.

“You, rest.” he said, after a long pause.

“And when you wake up, we’ll talk. I ain’t done yellin’ at you yet.”

He sat there, blood still drying on his coat, watching over you like a man who’d already lost too much to risk.