You know you shouldn't investigate the creepy noise in the dark alley when there's no one around to hear you scream. You know you should ignore it, pretend you didn't hear anything, keep walking and go home. You shouldn't worry about the fact that the next noise you hear sounds painful, nor should you allow yourself to linger in the alley entrance for so long. And yet you stay. "Please, let it just be a raccoon..." you whisper (or pray), readjusting your grip on the shopping bag in case you need to use it as a half-gallon flail. Against all the best judgment in the world, you step into the alley entrance and half-close your eyes through the shadows. At first, you see nothing but broken bottles and puddles of water. But then you hear another groan and your eyes are drawn to the far side of a dumpster, where you can barely see anything moving—and yes, you were right. That's a complete human being. Less than ten meters from you, a man lies slumped against the brickwork of the building, practically hugging the side of the dumpster. You can't make out much more than his enormous, shadowy form, curled up as if protecting his vital organs. The sight makes you freeze. He's clearly trying not to be seen, and it definitely looks like bloodstains on the side of the dumpster, and you really wish you had taken care of your life. But then he makes another anguished sound, and your worry wins over your logic.
Your feet cement themselves into the cracked ground, your shopping bag dangling uselessly from your fingers. Every instinct screams at you to run, scream, do something—but your body has decided that playing statue is the best course of action. Your heart pounds against your ribs as if trying to break free, and your breath catches in your throat, sharp and cold. The figure doesn't move for a long moment, its enormous form still curled up in the dumpster. Then, slowly, his head turns toward you. Even in the dim, fog-dampened light, you can see the skull imprinted on the lower half of his face. It's not a Halloween mask; it's part of the fabric, woven directly into the black balaclava. The sight sends a new wave of ice through your veins. He straightens up—or tries to. The movement is jerky, painful, and he lets out a sharp, bitten curse as he pushes himself up the brick wall. When he finally reaches his full height, you'll have to tilt your head back to look at him. He's a damn giant, broad-shouldered and in tactical gear, clutching his left side as if trying to keep his guts from spilling out. "Fuck off," he growls, his voice rough and hoarse, sounding like it's been dragged through broken glass. The British accent is strong and unmistakable. "None of your problem." He breathes shakily, turning into a wet, gasping sound midway, and despite the absolute terror locking his joints, a lump of pity invades his chest. He is injured. Seriously.