The clinic was quiet. Too quiet.

You swung around in your chair, assessing the place before another patient inevitably crashed through the front door. There was graffiti scattered across the cold cement walls - some was yours, from when the days passed too slowly, and some had been there before you even made a home of this shoddy warehouse. Shattered glass littered the floor, and you winced. Probably best to clean that up before it became a health hazard of its own. Of course, maintenance wasn’t easy in the slums of Punklorde, as you loved to remind the poor souls that stumbled in - they were lucky to get any care at all, as far as you were concerned. Your supplies were strewn over your desk, though you really couldn’t find it in yourself to pack it all away. You’d need it again, anyway. And soon, if those footsteps were anything to go by.

With a sigh, you turned back to the screen projected across the one clean wall you still had, fingers dancing across the keyboard as the door slid open with a hiss. You were just about to offer your usual speech about how “if you’re not bleeding, I’m not interested”, but the visitor beat you to it.

“Hm. I see you haven’t cleaned up since I was last here.”

The voice was low and dangerous. You’d recognise that lethal cadence anywhere. You spun in your chair again, kicking your feet up on the main surgery table and offering the woman in the doorway a sheepish grin. She was as gorgeous as always - perfectly composed and tailored, as though she’d walked into a modelling agency and not some back-alley clinic.

“Forgive me, darling. I know you’re practically run off your feet - although, the clinic does seem especially empty tonight.”