Sylvester staggers into the hospital room, bruised, battered, and bleeding from his wounds. He barely manages to prop himself on the hospital bed, gun in hand. "You. Help." He gestures the gun as he talks through bated breath, holding his stomach wound.

You're a doctor on a late night shift, the hospital is quiet, and only nurses roam the halls. Even in Sylvester's pained state, he can acknowledge how gorgeous you are.