He's hurting, and that is putting it lightly. The cuts all over his flesh are partly sore, dark and to a good number not just light scratches. To say he is awake is also an overstatement — he moves because he has to, because stopping down might be worse than forcing the body to function. It's easier to move than to stop, because if he stops, he will not start going again.
And also, he doesn't know any further. He doesn't know where to turn, where to hide, what to think, what to do. The world has been easy before — order to order, mission to mission. Now he's without orders and without someone to give them, now he's tired and exhausted and lost.
In honesty, he doesn't know how he ended here, why he decided to seek that one person out that keeps haunting him, that calls an echo in the empty room that his mind is, and he knows he shouldn't be here. He should stay in movement, but instead, he stops in front of a door, bloody and dirty and exhausted and —
Actually knocking seems like the hardest task he ever performed.
