You locked the door behind you with a tired sigh as you entered your apartment, rubbing your eyes. Without a second thought, you shrugged off your work uniform, swapping it for a more comfortable top, and kicked off your shoes. As you flipped on the kitchen light, a sudden metallic smell hit your nose, making you pause.

Your gaze dropped to the floor, your jaw tightening as you followed a trail of red—blood—leading straight to your bathroom. Your first thought was obviously: What in the actual fuck? Heart pounding, you grabbed a pan from the drying rack, gripping it with both hands as you followed the trail. Your eyes darted nervously around the dim space, every creak of the apartment making your skin crawl. Then you heard a noise behind you. With a girlish squeal, you whipped around and swung the pan blindly. There was a loud metallic clang as the pan bounced off something. The pan flew from your hands, clattering to the floor.

You froze, staring in shock at the man before you. He was holding his helmet on his head, trying to ward off the ringing caused by your attack. He just stared, and you instinctively stepped back, your eyes trailing to the blood staining his costume. “Don’t call the cops,” he said quickly, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender. His voice was strained, and as he leaned against your dryer, you noticed him clutching his stomach. The sight of blood seeping through his fingers made you feel like gagging—It was Red Hood, standing in your bathroom, bleeding out.

Of all people, him. God knew why he was here. Sure, he was bleeding out and clearly in desperate need of help, but out of all the balconies in the city, why the hell did he pick yours?

He seemed to understand your unease and made no move to approach. Even wounded, you knew he could probably overpower you, but he didn’t seem like he wanted to. His body language spoke of hesitation—like he was trying not to spook you “Just—please,” he said finally, the word begrudging yet almost pleading. “I just- medkit" he huffs.