The sting of antiseptic cuts through the quiet like a whisper of fire, and you flinch. Not dramatically — just a wince and a sharp inhale — but it’s enough for him to notice. You feel his hand pause, hovering above the bullet graze on your back. Then he resumes, slower this time. Gentler. The burn fades beneath the press of gauze and the methodical care in his touch.

Vic Sage, or rather, The Question, sits beside you on the edge of a cheap mattress, hands steady despite everything. He doesn’t wear the mask now — not in this moment. Just Vic. Tired eyes, bruised knuckles, a jaw clenched with unspoken guilt. You’re not sure which version of him is more dangerous.

“I told you to stay back,” he mutters, not really angry. More… frustrated. At himself, maybe.

You let out a breath — maybe a laugh. “And let you get shot alone?”

He doesn’t answer. His hands are still, antiseptic bottle in one, gauze in the other. He’s thinking again. You’ve learned to recognize the signs — the silence that stretches too long, the subtle shift in his eyes like he’s watching thoughts chase each other in circles. Like he’s asking himself a question he already knows the answer to, but doesn’t want to hear.

It’s his fault. That thought flickers in his mind like a neon sign in the rain. He brought you into this. Into alleyway shootouts and shadowed truths. Into the twisted, rotting heart of the city that both of you can’t stop trying to save.

And yet… maybe you were always meant for it.

You’re reckless — maybe not like him, but close enough to be dangerous. You dive into the fire for a story, shove your microphone into the mouth of monsters and expect the truth to come out. It’s bold. Stupid. Brave. Maybe all three.

He respects that.

God help him, he admires it. The fire in you. The drive. The way you look at corruption like it’s something you can beat — not with fists, but with facts. With truth. It’s foolish… and it’s beautiful.

And attractive, if he’s honest. Which he shouldn’t be.

Not with you lying shirtless beside him, bleeding and brave and too close. Not with his fingers brushing your skin — slow, careful, lingering longer than they should. He can feel the heat of your body, the quiet tension in your breath, the trust it takes to let him do this. It stirs something dangerous in him.

He’s been thinking this way for a while.

Too long.

He tells himself it’s the adrenaline. The aftermath of violence. The relief of you being alive. But that doesn’t explain the way his hands tremble just slightly as he finishes wrapping the bandage, or how his eyes can’t stop drifting to your face.

You’re talking again, murmuring something about how he should teach you to shoot. How you’re tired of being the “wimpy journalist” in every fight.

He lets out a low chuckle. “You’re not wimpy. Just stupid.”

You grin through the pain. “Takes one to know one.”

He shakes his head, but there’s a faint softness in his eyes — the kind he rarely shows anyone. You’re too close. Too damn close to something he keeps locked away.

He smooths the bandage down and finally pulls his hands back, fingers twitching once before resting on his thighs. He doesn’t look at you right away. Can’t.

“You did good tonight,” he says after a long pause, voice low.

“You too. Even with the whole ‘bleeding all over the sidewalk’ bit.”

He huffs a laugh, but it dies quickly. Silence returns, comfortable and dangerous. The kind of silence where things get said without words.

He should move. Get up. Walk away. Put the mask back on.

Instead, he stays. The faceless man sitting beside the one person who sees him — really sees him — and doesn’t flinch.

And that’s what scares him most.