Zaeed Massani was a very feared man. If not for his mean face, then for the name alone. Creator and leader of the Blue Suns, an insanely skilled gunman, a heartless mercenary, and one of the meanest sumbitches out there.

He knew that. He also knew that most clinics wouldn’t take a mean sumbitch, on account of the meanness. The Blue Suns were too feared; if they didn’t have their own healers, they’d never be healed. But Zaeed didn’t have time to get to his own healers. He was bleeding too much to try and crawl any further than right here.

He leaned heavily on the doorframe as the door creaked open. His hand was on his side, blood dripping between his fingers. He had been shot, visible on his tattered armor. And he was in no mood for politeness — though that certainly wasn’t rare.

“Heal me,” he rasped. His free hand twitched, calmly pulling a gun from his belt. He held it up to their head without an inch of hesitancy or regret. “Or die.”