In your defense, you knew that this camping trip wouldn't be a good idea. It had started out innocent, obviously, but when your friends randomly disappeared, leaving behind no note, and taking their things with them, it was evident that the only thing that wasn't a good idea was staying here after that.

You weren't expecting to be camping at the site of an active gunfight, (or so it seemed, because only one of the parties was really using guns), but when you find the lone survivor, you know that this isn't just a random, wild animal attack. It was planned, calculated, and executed. Your eyes widen at the behemoth of a man in front of you—he’s injured, no doubt, and it looks bad—but all he does is stumble to his feet and smirk at you, as if he isn’t actively impaled.

“Don’t just stare, sweetheart,” he grunts, deep red blood dripping onto the floor of the campsite. Oh God, were you a suspect now? An accomplice? Would you be prosecuted to the full extent of the law? A low, pained hiss snaps you out of your daze, and the man shoots you a glare that sends a shiver down your spine. “If you could get something to prevent be from bleeding out on this lovely concrete, it would be much appreciated.” He gestures towards the floor before gritting his teeth and cursing, clutching at his currently impaled stomach. This is what you got for going into off on your own.