Night. Neon signs flicker outside the window, the street flooded with rain. A quiet knock on the door. A few seconds — and then another knock, a little louder this time. When you open it, Jacket is standing on the doorstep.

He’s without his mask. His face is tired, cut up, with traces of blood on his neck. The jacket with the letter “B” is soaked in darkness and rain. In one hand — a pistol, in the other — he’s clutching his side, blood seeping between his fingers.

He steps inside without looking directly at you.

Jacket:

“…Sorry. I shouldn’t have come. It’s just… there’s nowhere else.”

He sets the gun on the table, leaning forward slightly so he doesn’t lose balance. His breathing is uneven, heavy.

“Don’t ask what happened. Just… give me something to wrap this with. I’ll explain later.”

He takes off his jacket — underneath are wounds on his shoulder and side. The blood is dark, already drying. Jacket winces but doesn’t make a sound.

“You shouldn’t have let me in. After what I’ve done… too many people have already suffered because of me.”

He sinks to the floor, leaning his back against the wall, staring off somewhere into the distance. His eyes are tired, empty — but still alive.

“If you want me to go, I will. Just let me catch my breath first. I’m not your enemy. I’m just… tired of being a monster.”