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My head is pounding again—for the first time since I started weaning myself off my meds-pushing me outside, begging for me to get down the street, all urgent thrumming and pain pain pain.

The Vigilante is leaning against the wall of an alley two blocks from my apartment and his breathing is shallow.

"Are you okay?" I ask him and when he turns to me, there's blood leaking from his mouth.

He gasps, reaching for me and his voice is raw when he tells me, "you need to leave. Go home. Now."

Hell no.

"You're hurt."

He groans, pressing his hand to his side. In the dim glow of the streetlamp above, I can see blood flowing through his fingers. He staggers, his free hand grabbing my arm to steady himself.

"I can call 911," I say, panic starting to bubble inside me. "Let me help you."

"No-no hospitals. I just need…"

"I live around the corner, come on."

He hesitates, but he leans on me as we make our way down the block. His blood is soaking through my shirt with every step.

I make him sit on the toilet in my bathroom, the only room that has bright lighting, so I can examine the wound. I reach for his mask, but he stops me with a firm grip on my hand.

"No. There's nothing wrong with my face." He pulls his shirt off, wincing and crying out as he tugs it away from the wound.

Which appears to be from a gunshot.

And is super, super gross.

"Shit," I hiss.

"The bullet-the bullet needs to come out."

"Fucking hell."

"Can you see it?" he asks through gritted teeth.

"I can barely see anything through all this blood."

"Do you have tweezers or something? Fuck, I need to get it out." His voice is growing more frantic with every word.

I throw open the medicine cabinet and find a pair that are kind of rusty and definitely not sterile.

"It's fine," he pants. "Just hand them over."

With horror, I watch him plunge them into his side, clenching his teeth. I feel like I'm going to throw up, so I say, "I'm going to find a towel or something."

I splash my face with cold water in the kitchen and start washing my hands off in the sink, watching his blood circle the drain. I have some dingy towels sitting by the sink but they're relatively clean. I soak one in water before I make my way back to the bathroom.

The Vigilante is holding the bullet that pierced his side, examining it with pained eyes, blood coating everything in the room.

"I have...towels," I mutter uselessly. "Should I...clean you up? You can use the shower if you need to, I don't really know standard protocol for gunshot wounds."

He shoots me an exhausted smirk, taking one of the towels from me and dabbing gently at his skin. I use another to wipe up the floor and sink.

"I'm so sorry for bleeding all over everything." His eyes are fighting to stay open. "I'll be out of your hair in a minute, I just need to catch my breath."

"Are you insane? Just, go lay down. There's a bed in the other room."

"I can't-"

"I'm not arguing. You won't let me call for help, so please just do this."

I think he's too tired to fight me on it, because he stumbles out of the room with me following, a bath towel ready to wrap around his middle. I make him lay on it before I tie each end tightly together over the spot where the bleeding is heaviest.

"Please don't die in my bed. I can't afford a new one."

His soft laugh is the last sound he makes before drifting to sleep.

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It takes almost an hour to get the bathroom clean, the trashcan full of red-stained towels by the end. I take a shower, the dried blood stuck to my skin is starting to itch.

It's almost midnight when I check under the towel to make sure the bleeding has stopping-or at least slowed-but all I find is pink, freshly scarred skin.

I gasp aloud, but he doesn't even stir, even when I reach for the book on the floor behind his head.

When I'm not reading, my eyes are drawn to him, to the steady rise and fall of his chest. I want to remove his mask. I want to wake him up and ask him a million questions. I want to curl up into his side and feel the warmth of him next to me.

I want to know why this thing between us exists. This pull.

I try to focus on the book.

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In terms of invincibility, records have shown us that such a claim isn't entirely accurate. We've read accounts of Real Ones dying by decapitation and by fire, usually done in conjunction with each other. It seems that their healing capabilities border on supernaturally fast. However, it has been noted that certain metals are toxic and therefore impede their healing process.

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I'm reading when he wakes with a start, eyes wide and panting as he tugs at the towel pats at his new scar.

"Seems to have healed up nicely," I say, wide eyed. He falls back against the mattress with a frustrated sigh.

"I shouldn't have come here," he mutters, glancing around at my empty walls and lack of furniture.

"Bleeding out in the street sounds like a better alternative?" I snap, closing my book with a satisfying slam.

"What are you reading?" he asks, ignoring my jab altogether. I throw the book to him and he pales when he sees the cover.

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you have this?"

"Research."

"On?"

"Isn't it obvious?" I ask, rolling my eyes. "You."

"You have no idea what you're talking about," he hisses, dropping the book on the mattress beside him as he gets to his feet. "You're completely out of your mind."

I can tell he's going to leave, he's about to walk out that door and find a new tall building to brood on and leave me all alone.

I move to block him, trying to fill the door frame with my body as I tell him, "I might be insane but that doesn't mean I'm wrong. Come on, I'm not fucking blind. Just because everyone is happy to think you fell into a vat of toxic waste or something doesn't mean that I am. I'm not going to tell anyone."

"No one would believe you, anyway," he says softly, pushing past me and closing the door behind him.

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