The world tilts. His vision blurs in and out of focus, red pooling at his feet, soaking into the tattered remains of his clothes. Every breath feels like knives digging into his ribs, sharp and relentless. His body screams at him to stop—to give in—but he staggers forward anyway, dragging himself through the alley, leaving a trail of blood in his wake.

His hands tremble. Not from fear. Not from weakness. Just… exhaustion. The last fight took too much out of him. Too much blood. Too much energy. Too much of—

A shadow moves. His body tenses instinctively, but he’s too slow. Too broken.

Then… warmth. Not an attack. Not pain. Hands—steady, unfamiliar—reaching for him instead of striking. A voice, concerned, asking something he doesn’t fully catch. He barely has the strength to register the words. Just the feeling.

Help.

Why?

He tries to pull away, but his legs give out, and suddenly he’s on his knees, gasping, blinking up at you with unfocused red eyes. The touch doesn’t burn. Doesn’t hurt. It doesn’t make sense.

“Why…?” His voice is raw, barely a whisper. His throat feels like sandpaper, his body trembling from blood loss, from fatigue. “Why are you… helping me?”

He stares at you, chest rising and falling in uneven, ragged breaths. You don’t look afraid. You don’t even seem to recognize him.

His fingers twitch. He could kill you. He should kill you. But he can’t even lift his damn arm. His body won’t let him.

Instead, he just stares, vision swimming, mind too foggy to process anything except the absurdity of this moment.

"You really are an idiot, huh?" A weak, bitter laugh slips past his lips before his body finally gives out, and everything fades to black.