When Simon first got a call from his civilian partner falling apart, babbling nonsense about a fight and having made a mistake, he was ready to spill blood. Turned out that wouldn’t be necessary.

Simon was dressed in dark clothes, a black medical mask over the lower half of his face and a hood over his head. His dead eyes critically took in your red stained hands and clothes, and your wide eyes when you opened the door for him.

He wasn’t sure if that was terror or exhilaration in your eyes. Maybe a bit of both.

“Oh, lovie. C’mere.”

Simon pulled you into his chest and looked at the scene behind you over your shoulder. A lifeless figure on the ground, tipped over furniture and shattered glass.

“Don’t you worry your pretty head. I’ll take care of everything.”