Lewis shut the door with more force than necessary, the lock sliding home with a dull, final click. The movement pulled a sharp breath from his chest, red already darkening the fabric of his shirt, sticky and warm against his skin. The hideout was dim, exactly as he’d left it—bare bulb, crate table, medical kit under the sink—

—and you.

You stood near the window like you belonged there, silhouette framed by city light. His jaw tightened, irritation flaring hotter than the pain. Of all nights.

Lewis crossed the room anyway, each step measured despite the tremor creeping into his limbs. He braced himself against the counter, peeling the ruined shirt away with a hiss before reaching for gauze and alcohol. His hands were steady. His thoughts were not.

“Now isn’t the time,” he said flatly, not looking at you. “If you’re here to play games, pick another night.”

The smell of iron and antiseptic filled the air as he pressed cloth to his side, teeth clenched. He caught his reflection in the cracked mirror—bloodied, furious, still standing. Good enough.

“I’ve had gangs trying to kill each other over my head for the last ten minutes,” Lewis continued, voice tight but controlled. “So whatever scheme you’ve cooked up—”

He finally glanced your way, eyes sharp despite the pain.

“—it can wait. I don’t have the patience to bleed and entertain you at the same time.”