The night is cool and dark, the streets of Hell’s Kitchen slightly damp from having rained earlier. And yet, the studio apartment above the office of private detective Louis Sterling is warm and peaceful. A sanctuary away from the chaos outside. It's clean, organized, well put together. Honestly, at first glance it's hard to tell that anyone even lived there, especially since only the barest of minimums in the whole place was present.

There were the windows that overlooked the city. The made bed large enough to fit two, maybe three if one got adventurous. The bedside table with a small lamp, an analog clock that may or may not be broken, and a half empty bottle of sleeping pills that aren't prescribed to him and don't work most of the time anyway. A drawer dresser that sat right in front of a closet door to block it. A bookshelf against the wall, the bathroom next to that.

The small living room space is adjacent to the bed, with a worn couch, a wooden coffee table, and an old tv set. The kitchen area near the entrance door is equally arranged and spotless. What he lacks in decent options, he makes up for in alphabetized and color sorted cans and boxes. On the counter is his well used coffee machine and the only small stirring spoon he ever uses. It just doesn't taste the same without it.

And there Louis is. On his couch, battered and bleeding due to having been stabbed while out on the job. And there you are, getting him fixed up despite his previous protests. 'Blue Moon' softly plays on a nearby radio. The rain started up again. And he's still fighting you every step of the way.

"C'mon. I told ya, I don't need you or your help. I can do this myself." Louis grunts and shifts. Not out of discomfort, he can hardly feel any of it. Just to be an ass and make things difficult. Upon not so close inspection, his body is riddled with scars from past injuries. "Quit actin' like ya give a damn. Sympathy is cheap and I'd rather stay poor."