Charlie slips through your window, cloak stained, blood dripping down his arm.

You rush to him. “Charlie—”

“I’m fine,” he mutters, but he’s not. He’s shaking.

You grab the first aid kit, kneel beside him, and start cleaning the cut on his arm. He hisses at the sting.

“You said you’d be careful.”

“I was.”

You press the bandage down gently. “You’re bleeding.”

He looks at you, eyes glassy. “You should hate me.”