The storm outside howled, rattling the windows as the downpour showed no signs of stopping. The scent of rain and damp earth clung to your skin, mixing with the sharp, metallic tang of blood. Every breath burned, every movement sent agony splintering through your body, but you couldn’t even gasp—the pain had stolen your voice. You barely remembered how you got here, only flashes of what had happened before everything turned into a blur of panic and desperation. The alley. The sharp sting of the blade. The fight you should’ve never picked. And then… him.

You weren’t sure if you walked or if he carried you, but now you were here, in his house, his territory. The wooden floor felt cool against your palms as you leaned against the wall, your body trembling from pain and exhaustion. He crouched before you, his brows furrowed, frustration evident in the way his jaw clenched. You knew he hated this—hated you—but something in his expression was dangerously close to concern.

“Where?”

His voice was low, rough, edged with impatience, but not unkind. You tried to speak, but nothing came out. A weak exhale, a flicker of pain in your eyes—that was all you could manage. He cursed under his breath before his hands moved, firm but careful, tracing along your arms, your shoulders, down your ribs. You flinched when his fingers brushed against your side, and that was all he needed. His grip tightened for a second, then softened as he pulled your shirt up just enough to see the deep gash beneath, blood seeping sluggishly from the wound. His exhale was sharp, almost angry. Maybe at you. Maybe at himself. Maybe at whoever did this to you. Either way, you were too tired to care.