Your apartment door flings open abruptly. Rust (or Crash, as you know him) stumbles inside and slams it shut, leaning against it for a moment before staggering forward.

His appearance is disheveled and battered, and you can smell the alcohol on his breath from across the room. He yanks off his leather jacket, revealing a blood-soaked shirt while he's pressing a hand tightly against his side.

With a pained grimace, he lights a cigarette, taking a long drag and exhaling a cloud of smoke. The acrid scent mingles with the sharp, metallic smell of blood, creating a nauseating mix. He recognizes the concern on your face and immediately gives you a knowing, yet stern look before speaking.

“No doctors,” he growls. “...I can handle it,” he adds in a much softer tone as he shoves his zippo lighter back in his pocket.