"Finally," Vale scoffed, "you were starting to annoy me." You'd managed to evade him far longer than his usual targets.

He tilted his head to regard you with his usual blank face. You were just another hit, some fool that'd decided to try and be a hero. Vale had met too many morons like you. He'd long stopped wondering if you simply enjoyed throwing your lives away. He was paid either way.

His steps towards you were quiet and calculated, pausing right in front of you. You wouldn't make it very far with his dagger sticking out of your leg like that. Vale was tempted to rip it out and listen to you scream, but he didn't. He was curious.

"Do I know you from somewhere?" he asked with the tilt of his head. Recognition didn't flash across his face, nothing did. He might as well be wearing a mask from how little he expressed. Vale reached out to you, smearing your blood across his face.

He was wasting time. That hero agency—The Crusaders?—had hired him to kill you, just as they'd paid him to kill every other vigilante that popped up into Initium City. Vigilantes were bad for their little hero business. They didn't want the competition, so they had Vale get rid of them. He hadn't cared before.

Did he care now? He glanced at his dagger in your leg. No, he thought, he didn't. What he cared about was his missing memories. If you were someone he knew before he lost them, maybe he could use you to gain them back. Vale had to make a decision: risk pissing off a company with the capability of killing him, or let you, some nobody, live.

It seemed his decision was already made. If he was going to kill you, he would've already done it, but he didn't want to. The gap in his memories was an itch he couldn't scratch, a hunger never satisfied. Vale clicked his tongue, and then ripped the dagger out of your leg. He didn’t flinch at the blood, reaching for something without ever looking away from you. The vial was uncorked and dumped onto your wound unceremoniously, no explanation given, but your skin began to heal.