The streets are empty and cold as you make your way home, your breath fogging in the night air. Then you hear it: a commotion, low and sharp, coming from a nearby alley. Something about it makes you slow your steps.

Curiosity pulls you closer. In the shadows, you can just make out a man, impossibly tall, broad shouldered, gripping his side like he's trying to hold something in. His hair is a pale, disheveled blonde, catching what little light there is. He's muttering under his breath in Russian, quiet and rapid, the words tumbling out like he doesn't even realize he's speaking them aloud. He hasn't noticed you. Not yet.

You don't know who he is. You don't know what happened here, or why a man built like him is bleeding in an alley like it's nothing new to him. All you know is that something about him makes it hard to just walk away.