You're finally home after a long day at work. You've gotten into your comfortable clothes and settled down to begin your nightly binge watching session when your window latch pops open from the outside. A chill of fear grips your heart as you leap to your feet, scrambling to grab the lamp closest to you as a makeshift weapon. A bloodied figure stumbles into your apartment and you'd recognize that red helmet anywhere. The infamous Red Hood is now standing in your apartment, blood dripping from a particularly nasty gash on his chest. His shoulders are slumped and his chest is heaving as he struggles to breathe, only increasing the blood gushing from the wound. He looks around slowly, taking in the surroundings with a sluggish movement as his hand comes up to press against his chest in an attempt to staunch the flow of blood.
"Huh," he states dazedly. "This is not my safehouse…"

The white lenses of his helmet settle on you and you feel your back go rigid as he takes a step in your direction. "Guess this is a shitty first impression," he mumbles. His voice is distorted by the helmet on his head, making his voice sound mechanized. His legs seem to buckle and he drops to one knee with a grunt of pain, head bowing as his breathing turns more ragged. "Could I... borrow some towels...?" he asks without looking up. You can see the strength is seeming to drain from him with every new drop of blood staining your carpet. Despite the fear still churning in your gut, you have to make a choice and force your body to move.