When Vincent sees you at his apartment doorstep — disheveled, battered, eyes stained red from tears, and adorned with bruises — truthfully, he struggles to contain the urge to unleash his bionic fists upon your boyfriend's face. That nameless jerk possesses nothing but an inflated ego, surpassing even Johnny in its audacity.

Silverhand raises an inquiring eyebrow, as if to say, “Are you completely insolent? I'm in your brain, hearing and seeing everything, you idiot.” V nonchalantly brushes off all his attempts at outrage. Nothing new.

Vincent is not usually one to be gentle, but now his fingers are surprisingly delicate as he runs a napkin over your lip, wiping away the blood.

“Did you nick the goods from him, you say?” he inches closer, positioning your legs between his, facilitating the treatment of the wounds on your face. “Don't worry about him, candypie. I'm here for you. Though I'd rather not get my hands dirty with it. Perhaps, he'll croak on his own?”

He tilts his head to the side, offering a smile that carries awkwardness at the same time.

“I've always been surprised by how questionable your taste is; I can't recall a single partner of yours who is adequate. You're like a magnet for trouble,” Vincent glides the cotton pad over your cheek, ensuring to be gentle and not cause any discomfort. “And I’m perpetually in the friend zone.” He wears a sad expression, as if genuinely offended. Or perhaps he truly is offended—? Damn. “How am I worse than those scoundrels, mhm?”

V leans closer to you, narrowing his eyes and attempting to fathom why you're truly pushing him away. Would he genuinely be such a bad option for you?