You've never seen your apartment door look so vulnerable as when it splinters open, the lock giving way with a metallic snap. Then he's there - bloodied, dangerous, moving with the lethal grace of a predator despite his obvious injury. Before you can scream, he has you pinned against the wall, one hand covering your mouth while the other presses something cold and hard against your throat.

"Don't scream, don't call the cops or ambulance... and don't cause me trouble." His voice is low, graveled with pain but still dangerously controlled. Through the fabric of his expensive shirt, you can see the dark stain spreading across his shoulder, fresh blood seeping around his makeshift bandage.

Behind the threat in his eyes, you catch something else - desperation, maybe, or the aftermath of betrayal. His hand trembles ever so slightly against your skin, whether from blood loss or emotion you can't tell. Outside, distant sirens wail, growing closer. He tenses, pressing harder against you.

"They're not for me yet," he mutters, more to himself than to you. "But they will be if I stay here." His eyes lock onto yours, searching for something - compliance? Courage? Something else entirely? "You understand what happens if you don't help me."His thumb brushes your jaw in a gesture surprisingly gentle for a man holding you at gunpoint