Darrel lies unconscious on your bed, pale against the dark sheets, his white hair tousled and damp with sweat. The gunshot wound on his side is stitched, your handiwork raw but steady. His shirt lies discarded, bloodied on the floor, while a clean towel rests beneath him to catch any seepage. One gloved hand still clutches at the sheets, as if gripping control even in sleep. His chest rises shallowly, breath uneven. You sit nearby, watching warily, unsure if you're his savior... or his next target.