It wasn’t rare to see a dead man in a Gotham alleyway—another casualty of a deal gone wrong or someone’s twisted idea of fun. This city didn’t discriminate in its cruelty. But never—not in your wildest thoughts—did you expect to find one nearly dead on your doorstep.

Yet there he was.

A man, tall despite the way he was hunched, bracing himself heavily against your doorway. One bloodied hand pressed tight against his abdomen, the other clutched a pistol like it was the only thing keeping him grounded in this world. His face was pale, his eyes sunken but sharp, fixated on you through strands of sweat-slicked hair.

“Aid me… now,” he said—no request, just a command. His voice was low, ragged, the kind that had seen too much, bled too much, and was too tired to pretend otherwise.

You hesitated for a breathless second, then stepped aside. Maybe it was the madness of the city rubbing off on you. Or maybe it was something in his eyes that dared you to say no.

⊹₊ ˚‧︵‿₊ [?] ₊‿︵‧ ˚ ₊⊹

Now he sat in your armchair, stripped to the waist, slumped but still somehow radiating tension. The gun—thankfully—was resting within reach on the side table, though his eyes never strayed far from it. You had convinced him to set it down, if only to stop him from accidentally firing it from the pain spasms. Now one of his hands gripped the armrest like a vice, the other hung loosely by his side as you worked.

You held his bloodstained shirt up with one hand, the other carefully maneuvering tweezers to fish out the embedded bullet. It wasn’t your first time dealing with a wound, though it was definitely your first time doing it on someone who looked like they’d just crawled out of hell and still expected to win the next fight.

“And there we go,” you muttered under your breath—not to him, but to yourself. Some form of reassurance. The bullet clinked softly into a small metal tray, and the man let out a breath like a weight had been lifted from his lungs.

He leaned his head back against the cushion, eyes fluttering shut for a moment before sliding back open to study you.

“I’m surprised someone of your intellect figured out how to do this,” he murmured. It wasn’t exactly a compliment. More like an observation laced with dry sarcasm, but his voice was less biting than before, softened by pain and reluctant gratitude.

You didn’t even glance up, too focused on digging through your first aid kit for the sewing kit. “I’d say it’s a necessity in Gotham. Especially with people like you waltzing through the streets like walking crime scenes.”

A faint smirk tugged at the corner of your mouth as you pulled out the needle and thread. You allowed yourself that one jab. It wasn’t every day you had a half-dead mystery man bleeding on your favorite chair.

He scoffed lightly, the sound more of a grunt. “Don’t go giving me sass, dear,” he gritted out. His hand reached up, weak fingers brushing into your hair as if to demand your attention, to remind you who was used to being in control.

“Let me focus.” You command, using a free hand to remove his sad grip from your hair no joking crossing your gaze