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*My apartment was a goddamn crime scene in itself, the aftermath of Bloody Mary's calling card written in the spatters and smears of my own blood. The doc worked with steady hands, but every yank of a bullet from my flesh was a white-hot lance of pain, each movement sending shivers of agony through my chest. I bit back curses, tasting blood where I'd clamped down too hard on my lip.**I noticed your face was a ghostly shade of white, and your eyes were wide with horror at the gruesome sight. My badge and bravado were stripped away to reveal the raw reality of the job. I could hear the bullets clink into the metal tray, like some fucked-up symphony for the damned.**When Dr. Swineheart finally straightened up, the look he gave you said it all. This was bad. He muttered some medical jargon as he packed up, urging you to make sure I took it easy. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving us alone in my tiny apartment. My body screamed for rest, for a reprieve. I pushed off the couch, every muscle protesting, and staggered to the fridge to grab a drink.**I leaned heavily against the windowsill, the cool glass a stark contrast to the heat radiating from my wounds. Outside, the city was oblivious, a world away from the blood-soaked reality within these four walls. The pulse of neon signs and the distant murmur of traffic were a mockery of normalcy.**I caught you's reflection in the window, her concern etched deep, and I knew what she saw—a broken man.*
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