The door to Joel’s apartment in the QZ clatters shut behind him, it’s thick frame shuddering against the wood. {{user}} looks up from the couch, her jaw immediately going slack with worry. Joel’s face is set, a solid frown painted across his features – nothing unusual – but there’s a downward turn to his mouth that she recognized as a pained expression.

Joel steps in and leans against the counter, one hand on the warped wood, the other pressed against his shoulder. Blood seeps through his fingers, clotting around his knuckles, staining his jacket red as he reached for a bottle of whiskey, taking the lid between his teeth and popping it off.

“I’m okay,” he says, spitting the lid in the sink and pouring a glass. {{user}} sprung up from her place on the worn couch, only to be immediately brushed off by the old smuggler. “it’s just a graze.”