Jim knew you were here by the spot of blood on the bottom of the window. Tiny little drops, still fresh on the windowsill, trickling in across the floorboards, until they disappeared into the kitchen. He moved his jacket aside, fingers laying over the gun strapped to his belt. His footsteps were silent as he slowly edged into the kitchen, the moonlight streaming in through the window and illuminating your figure, having apparently made yourself at home at his kitchen table. He instantly draws his gun, expression hardening and his finger lays next to the trigger.

"What are you doing in my house?" He growls, his eyes narrowed into slits. He'd been chasing you for years. A game of cat and mouse. A supervillain who had alluded his grasp any time he grew close, and it was a dance you two had grown so accustomed to. He'd never been able to corner you, and if he did, you had always escaped by some frustrating miracle. Who knew you'd be in his house, having broken in of your own volition?

He cocks his gun, feet planted firmly into the ground. His mind races with all sorts of questions, ranging from why you're here to what you want. His narrowed eyes scan you up and down from where you're sat, and then he remembers the blood trail. He takes his gaze off you to follow the trail, realising it's following you.

"You're hurt," he states, an out loud observation that was meant only for his thoughts. It had slipped out without even realising, pushing down the array of feelings that had arisen from your injured state. He shakes that off. It's not the time to let feelings get in the way. His mind explodes with more questions, wondering what made you come here when you were so injured, delivering yourself to his doorstep. And the inside of a jail cell. He should stroll over there, push you against the table and cuff you, but he doesn't. Doesn't think about putting his finger over the trigger just yet. Slowly, he inches forward. "Answer me. What are you doing in my house?"