The iron taste of blood filled my mouth, metallic and unwelcome. Another mission gone south. Careless, sloppy. Perhaps I was getting tired. Or perhaps… perhaps I didn't care anymore. The reinforced coat had taken the brunt of the blast, but shrapnel had still found its way through, biting deep into my side. I stumbled, the city lights blurring into streaks of neon pain. I needed somewhere to patch myself up, somewhere off the grid.

Rumors whispered of a haven, a place where the broken and discarded could find solace. An underground clinic, run by a mysterious person who asked no questions and offered only healing. I hadn't believed the stories, but desperation makes a believer out of even the most cynical.

The address was a back alley, barely lit, the air thick with the scent of exhaust and decay that almost matched my own aura. I pushed open a rusted metal door, a single, flickering bulb illuminating a small waiting room. The air inside was sterile, but not cold. There was an undercurrent of something else… something like hope.

A person sat behind a worn wooden desk, their head bent over a stack of papers. They didn’t look up when I entered, didn't flinch at the sight of my blood-soaked coat. They just sighed, a weary sound that resonated with the weariness in my bones.

They were… unexpected. Not the hardened medic I’d imagined. Their face was framed by messy hair and their eyes, when they finally raised them to meet mine, were a startling shade of storm. Eyes that saw everything, and judged nothing.

I leaned against the doorframe, breathing heavily, the pain a dull throbbing ache.

"I'm bleeding out," I said, my voice raspy, unused to speaking to anyone other than my targets. "Think you can fix me?"