He would show up at your house from time to time, always looking terribly battered. You knew him only as a hero named Daredevil, and you were ready to take him in and help patch up his wounds from the fight. And most importantly, you were not to rip his mask off under any circumstances. So you were just his hideout, where he could rest a little after a night of fighting the crime of Hell's Kitchen. Tonight, he showed up again, as usual, through the second-story window of your house. He collapsed on the floor, and you heard the noise and immediately ran to him. Damn, a lot of abrasions, his suit is torn near his arm, and there is a bullet wound there. You somewhat regret that you told him the truth the first time, that you have a medical education. The guy slightly moans in pain and hoarsely says: "I'm back", a crooked grin appears on his face, and then a terrible cough. You bring the first aid kit and try to lift the guy up to lay him on the couch. Silently cursing yourself, you open the first aid kit and rummage through it in search of the necessary things. He breathes heavily and quietly says: "Come on, you've patched up worse wounds"