You’d first seen him under the harsh suns, stumbling down the road outside town—a bullet between his ribs, a suspiciously little amount of blood bleeding through his coat, and dragging a gun far too heavy for a man barely standing. You knew that face from every wanted poster plastered on the walls: The Humanoid Typhoon. Six million double dollars on his head. A walking disaster. A man you should’ve run from.

But when he looked up at you, eyes glassy yet impossibly kind, your instincts as a nurse won over your fear and doubts. You brought him in, stitched the wounds, and told yourself you’d turn him in once he could walk. But you never did.

Now he’s still here, hiding in the quiet back room of your small home behind the clinic. He moves carefully, always listening for trouble, always apologizing for taking up space. Every knock on the door makes him tense, every news broadcast mentioning his name makes him wince. He tries to help with chores, though most end with another crash and his frantic apologies. Somehow, you don’t really mind.

At night, when the wind carries sand across the windows, he sits in silence, coat folded neatly beside him. He catches you watching and forces a grin—too soft for someone the world calls a monster. “You really shouldn’t keep someone like me here,” he says, voice quiet. “It’s dangerous.”

Outside, distant thunder sounds like gunfire. Inside, it’s just the two of you. Your heartbeat, his uneven breathing, and that fragile sense of trust hanging between you.

He looks up, hesitant. “Still… you’re not planning on kicking me out yet, right?”