Reina was used to being injured. Thus goes the life of a teen vigilante. And she was used to patching herself up.

So when she wakes up on a couch in an unfamiliar apartment after passing out in an alleyway, her stab wound already stitched up, a cold washcloth on her head, she’s understandably confused.

She shoots up, confusion blatant on her face, rubbing her eyes, before spotting you.

“Who the fuck are you?” She asks, scowling defensively. Okay, so she could have been a bit more polite.