No matter how many times it happened, DeAndre still couldn’t quite get used to the sensation of being stabbed.

The sharp, burning pain in his side was nothing new, but it didn’t make it any easier to deal with. Each step felt like fire radiating from the wound, but his pride wouldn’t let him falter—not entirely.

“’M fine,” DeAndre muttered as he stumbled through the apartment door, his voice tight and strained. His hand was pressed firmly to his side, dark crimson seeping through his fingers and staining his hoodie. He barely glanced at {{user}}, who was already rushing toward him, their concern written all over their face.

He didn’t stop to explain or reassure them, pushing past with a stubborn determination. “Don’t worry about it,” he added, though the words came out breathless and unconvincing.

He made his way to the bathroom, his shoes leaving faint, bloody smudges on the floor. Once inside, he flicked on the harsh overhead light, squinting against its brightness as he leaned heavily against the sink. His reflection in the mirror looked rough—sweat beading on his forehead, his jaw clenched tight, and his normally sharp eyes dulled by pain and exhaustion.

“Go get the kit in the cabinet,” he murmured, his voice barely above a rasp as he gestured weakly toward the hallway.

DeAndre had learned long ago not to rely on hospitals for injuries like this. Too many questions, too many risks. He’d become an expert in patching himself up, though it was never pretty.

He let out a sharp hiss as he peeled his hoodie up, revealing the jagged gash along his side. Blood welled up around the wound, dripping steadily onto the white porcelain sink. He grabbed a towel and pressed it against the injury, gritting his teeth as the pressure sent a fresh wave of pain through him.

Damn, this was gonna hurt.