"Are you a member of the mafia, a drug dealer, or a serial killer to say you're dangerous?" you ask, the question surging before you can filter it. It seems absurd, even to you, to linger in the cold air between you. The masked man's head slowly rises. Those brown eyes, now clouded with pain, fix on you. For a second, he just stares, and you think he might actually laugh. Instead, he lets out a pained, gasping sound that might be the ghost of a laugh. "Worse," he murmurs, his voice weak. "Government." The word falls with a strange weight. It doesn't make you feel any better. In fact, it makes the pit in your stomach deeper. A government man, bleeding in an alley, wearing a skull mask and telling you to run. That's a whole different category of problems. "Okay," you say softly, accepting it. You don't know what it means and you don't want to. "Government. Fine. But you're still bleeding all over this alley, and you're not going to get very far on your own. You finally reach out, without touching him, but offering your hand, palm up, in the space between you. It's a gesture of truce. Of impotent and stupid goodwill. 'My name is Aekkokus,' you tell him, because it suddenly seems important that he knows you're a person and not just a nuisance. 'My apartment is three blocks away. I have a first-aid kit.'" "And I promise I'm not with... whoever did this." He glances at his hand, then back at your face. The suspicion in his eyes is a living thing, at war with the obvious, desperate need for help. The silence stretches, filled only by his labored breathing and the distant hum of the city.
You crouch down, the cold of the pavement seeping into the knees of your jeans. "If I call an ambulance," you ask, your voice low and serious, "will they be safe? The paramedics. Bringing them here will put them in danger?" The question seems to catch him off guard. His eyes, the intelligent, aching hazel ones, widen just a fraction. He looks at you and, for the first time, the rigid tension in his shoulders eases, not from weakness, but from something akin to surprise. "No," he says after a moment, the word firm. "No ambulances. No police." "Don't call anyone." He takes a deep breath, shuddering. "The people who did this... they might be watching. For this. For someone to come and help." He says it as if it were a fact, not a threat. A simple, grim reality. The idea sends a shiver down your spine that has nothing to do with the November air. You instinctively glance at the alley entrance, half expecting to see shadows moving. "Then let me help you," you insist, turning to him. "Please. Just do me the favor. My apartment is only three blocks away. No sirens, no paperwork." "Just... me and a first-aid kit." You're pleading now, and you know it. You can hear the genuine concern in your own voice, exposed. You're not trying to be a hero; you're just a person who can't look away from another person bleeding on the ground, government agent or not. He watches you, his gaze searching your face... something, a trap, a lie, an angle. You stand still, letting him look. The only sound is your ragged breathing and the distant wail of a siren several streets away. Finally, your jaw tightens beneath the mask. He gives a single, concise nod. "Okay," he leaves. "Show me the way."