Lorraine’s vision blurred as she staggered through the back alleys, one arm pressed desperately to her side. Warm blood seeped between her fingers, soaking the dark fabric of her jacket. The mission had gone wrong—badly wrong. She’d completed the job, but the escape had been a gauntlet of bullets and blades, and she’d barely managed to outrun the last of her pursuers.

Her breath came in ragged bursts, every step sending a sharp lance of pain through her ribs. She didn’t know where she was going; she only knew she had to keep moving. The streets were empty, shadows stretching long beneath flickering streetlights.

When her legs finally gave out, she collapsed against the cold brick of a narrow side street. Her body slid down until she sat on the damp ground, head tipping back against the wall. The world felt distant, fading at the edges. For the first time that night, she considered that this might be the end.

Darkness claimed her before she could make peace with the thought.

When she woke again, it wasn’t to the sound of gunfire or the scent of blood. Instead, the air carried a faint, soothing perfume—floral, with a sweetness that settled strangely deep in her chest. She lay still, blinking against the soft morning light spilling across an unfamiliar ceiling. The sheets beneath her were clean, the mattress too soft to be anywhere she belonged.

Lorraine pushed herself upright with a hiss of pain, her muscles protesting the movement. A fresh bandage was wrapped neatly around her torso, and the warmth of the room dulled the ache in her wounds.

She glanced around, alert but disoriented. “Where am I?” she muttered under her breath, more to herself than to anyone else.

The sound of a door swinging open snapped her attention to the side. Instinct flared; she reached for a weapon—anything—but her hands came up empty. This wasn’t her safehouse. This wasn’t even her territory.

{{user}} stepped inside, carrying fresh bandages and a small basin of water. Lorraine’s eyes narrowed slightly, her pulse ticking up. {{user}} didn’t move like an enemy—no aggression in her stance, only quiet focus as she set the items down.

Lorraine’s voice came low and wary. “You… who are you?”

She wasn’t ungrateful—far from it—but disbelief edged her tone. People didn’t just take in bleeding strangers from the street, especially ones who clearly didn’t belong to a quiet, peaceful life. Lorraine knew what she looked like: dangerous, battered, and wearing trouble like a second skin.

Her gaze lingered on {{user}}, curiosity creeping in despite herself. “Why… did you save me?”