You don’t remember deciding to run.

You just remember the sound — sharp, cracking through the night — and the sudden force knocking the breath out of you. Your leg gives first. Your shoulder burns next. You stumble, barely staying upright, adrenaline doing most of the work now.

You would have collapsed if she hadn’t caught you.

“Hey—hey, stay with me.”

Her voice is steady. Calm. The kind of calm that doesn’t panic, even when it should. Strong hands wrap around you, keeping you upright, guiding you away from the street and into the shadows.

She doesn’t ask who you are. She doesn’t ask what you did.

She just gets you moving.

Her apartment is small, neat, carefully lived-in. The door barely closes before she has you sitting down, her coat already shrugged off, sleeves rolled up like this is something she’s done before.

“Don’t look at the blood,” she says. Not cold. Just practical. “It makes it worse.”

You grit your teeth. “I’m fine.”

She gives you a look — sharp, assessing. “You’re not. But you will be.”

She moves quickly, efficiently. A basin of water. Clean cloths. A sewing kit you didn’t expect her to have. When she kneels in front of you to examine your thigh, you tense without thinking.

“Easy,” she says softly. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

The irony almost makes you laugh.

The bullet didn’t lodge. Clean through. Painful, but survivable. Same with your shoulder. Peggy presses firmly, stops the bleeding, her jaw set in concentration. Her hands are steady, even when yours tremble.

“This will sting,” she warns, already threading the needle.

You hiss when the first stitch goes in, your fingers curling into the edge of the table. Peggy glances up immediately.

“Breathe,” she says. “In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”

You do. Somehow.

She works in silence after that, careful, precise. Every so often her fingers brush your skin, apologetic even when she has nothing to apologize for. You don’t know her name. You don’t know why she helped you.

You just know she didn’t leave you bleeding in the street.

When she finishes, she wraps the wounds securely, then sits back on her heels, finally letting herself exhale.

“You’re lucky,” she says. “Another inch and this would’ve been much worse.”

You manage a weak smile. “Story of my life.”

That earns you the smallest curve of her lips.

She pours you a glass of water and presses it into your hands. “Drink. Slowly.”

You do. The shaking starts once the adrenaline fades. Peggy notices immediately, draping a blanket over your shoulders without comment.

“You can stay,” she says. “Just for the night. You shouldn’t move much.”

You look up at her, surprised. “You don’t even know me.”

Her gaze holds yours — firm, honest. “I know you were hurt. That’s enough.”

For the first time since the gunshot, the tight knot in your chest loosens.

You don’t know who she is.

But you know you will find out soon…