The first time you saw her, she was barely conscious.

You’d heard the thump against the balcony glass—soft, almost polite—and at first you thought it was a bird. A mistake. But when you pulled aside the curtain, there she was. Slumped against the railing, blood blooming across her black suit like a dark flower. A mask covered half her face, but you could see her eyes: one nearly swollen shut, the other watching you, too tired to plead.

She didn’t speak. You doubted she could. She only lifted one gloved hand and tapped weakly on the glass.

And somehow, you knew.

You unlocked the door, knelt beside her. Your voice was low, steady. “Don’t worry. I’ll help you.”

She didn’t answer. She just let herself fall into your arms.

That night you didn’t sleep. You carried her to your couch, removed what pieces of armor you could without causing more harm, and cleaned the wounds the way your grandmother had taught you—gently, like painting in reverse. You stitched one gash above her ribs with shaking fingers, and bandaged the rest with strips from an old shirt.

She woke only once. Her eyes fluttered open. Met yours.

“You… okay?” you asked, whispering.

She blinked. Then nodded.

The next morning, she was gone. Your couch still held the shape of her. The blanket, the faintest scent of blood and leather. You weren’t sure if it had happened. Until that night, when you found a single, perfectly folded note on your windowsill: “Thank you.”

After that, she came back.

Not often. Not predictably. But she came.

Sometimes it was after a rough night—when her knuckles were bruised and she winced just slightly when sitting down. Other times, she’d arrive without a scratch, just stand in your doorway with quiet eyes and the smallest tilt of her head, as if asking: Can I stay?

You always said yes.

She never said much. She didn’t need to. You came to recognize her rhythms—how she liked warm tea, but never sweetened. How she read with her knees pulled up on the couch, always facing the door. How, sometimes, she’d vanish for weeks and come back with a new scar and a softer silence.

One night, she arrived soaked in rain and limping slightly.

You didn’t speak. Just guided her in, helped her sit. When she finally removed her mask, your breath caught. There was a cut along her jaw, swollen and raw.

“You should see a doctor,” you whispered.

She shook her head.

“You can’t keep doing this alone.”

She looked at you—long, steady.

“Not alone.”

That was the first time she’d spoken more than a word. Her voice was quiet, cracked with effort, but certain. Your heart stuttered.

From then on, she stayed longer. Brought a book once. A drawing the next. One evening, she cooked—simple rice and egg. You weren’t sure where she learned, but you didn’t ask.

You didn’t ask about the missions. Or the scars. Or the villains whose names made the news with bruised jaws and broken pride. But when she winced, you were there. When she fell asleep on your couch, you covered her with the same blanket. And when she sat on your balcony at dawn, silent as always, you joined her—mugs of tea warming your hands against the chill.

One morning, after a rough night, you found her curled up in your armchair, bandaged and half-asleep. As you brought over fresh tea, she looked up, eyes unreadable.

“Why?” she asked.

You paused. “Why what?”

“Why let me in?”

You sat across from her, exhaled.

“Because when I saw you that first night, you didn’t beg. Didn’t scream. You just… asked for help without saying anything. And I couldn’t ignore that. I didn’t want to.”

She nodded. A slow, almost imperceptible thing.

Then she stood, walked over, and—gently—rested her forehead against yours. A wordless thank you. The kind only she could give.

Since then, she comes more often.

Sometimes she stays a night. Sometimes three.

Sometimes she leaves without a word, but always returns.

And every time, you leave the window unlocked.