The ambulance hurtled through the rain-slicked streets, a metal cocoon swaying with the rhythm of urgency. Inside, the world was a symphony of sirens and the low hum of the engine, a familiar lullaby to your years of service. It was within this chaotic cradle that the Vigilante began to stir, a rustle of movement pulling him back from the abyss. A muffled groan escaped him, his hand—clumsy, heavy—fumbling towards the wound on his side where you had applied pressure. For a fleeting second, he seemed utterly lost, the confusion on his face as raw and unguarded as a child waking in a stranger’s room, the hard lines of his masked persona softened by disorientation.
“Did I die?” he asked again, his voice thick with sleep and something perilously close to innocence.
You bit back a laugh, the sound catching in your throat. “No. I already told you, you didn’t die.”
He was quiet for a moment, the words processing in his concussed mind. “But you promised. So… I believed you.” He blinked slowly, the movement deliberate. “And you were right. That’s amazing. No one’s ever right about me.”
The statement struck you as adorably, profoundly strange. After years in this job, you had built a fortress of clinical detachment, having seen the full spectrum of human suffering. Yet, nothing had prepared you for the chaotic, unpredictable tempest that was this masked man. He was a paradox—a weapon of violence who now looked at you with the trusting eyes of a scolded puppy.
“Just keep taking deep breaths for me,” you instructed, your voice a steady anchor as you placed a grounding hand on his shoulder. “We’re almost there.”
He turned his head towards you. Even with the mask obscuring almost everything, you could feel the intensity of his gaze, a bright, sharp focus burning through the dark lenses. “You smell like… hospital and… expensive perfume?” he murmured, the words slurred as he tried to piece his senses together. “Or maybe that’s just the concussion.”
You let out a soft, breathy laugh. “I’m not wearing any perfume.”
“Oh. Then it’s just the smell of a nice person. I never learned how to tell the difference,” he sighed, as if this were a genuine, existential dilemma that had long plagued him.
Upon arrival at the hospital, the predictable struggle began. The moment you unlatched the stretcher’s restraints, he tried to push himself up again, a stubborn, prideful act of independence. His body, however, betrayed him instantly. He managed a half-sit before collapsing back onto the gurney with a pained groan, as if the entire ceiling had fallen on his head.
“I… can… do it…” he insisted, his voice strained.
“No,” you replied firmly, your hand splayed on his chest, a gentle but unyielding weight. “Stay still.”
“But I—”
“If you try to get up one more time, I will tape you to this stretcher with medical adhesive.”
He froze completely. The threat seemed to hang in the sterile air between you. “Would you really?” he asked, and the tone was not one of fear, but of genuine, curious wonder.
“Without a second thought.”
To your utter astonishment, the tension seemed to melt from his frame, replaced by something that looked suspiciously like happiness. It was as if the threat of being restrained was a promise—a guarantee that you wouldn’t simply leave him to his own devices, that someone was finally taking charge.
After the nurses arrived, you handed over the report and gave your briefing. Protocol dictated that you should have already been gone, en route to the next call, the next crisis. But an unfamiliar restlessness rooted you to the spot, a quiet, nagging pull you couldn't name. So you lingered, a silent spectator in the bright, busy hallway. And from your corner, you saw it—his head turning, his eyes, visible even from a distance, scanning the chaos until they found you. He looked, for the first time since you’d found him in that alley, truly and completely lost.
THE TRAUMA ROOM
When you finally entered, he was lying back, propped up at an angle, his gaze fixed on the ceiling tiles as if trying to decipher a map in their cracks and stains.
“Oh, you came back,” he said immediately, the words laced with a vulnerability so stark it was almost painful. “I… I thought you’d left. Like… left for good. People usually do.”
You blinked, a sudden, sharp tightness seizing your chest. What was this feeling? This ache that wasn’t quite pity, but something far more complicated?
“I just came to check on you,” you said, your professional facade firmly in place.
“That’s so… professional,” he sighed, the dramatics returning to his voice. “I’ve never been treated by someone nice before. Most people who patch me up think I’m… annoying.”
“You are not annoying,” you stated flatly, and he recoiled as if struck by a physical blow, his mouth falling open in mock horror. “But you're an chatterbox person who bleeds. So I have to take care of you.”
He relaxed back into the pillows, the fight draining out of him. “That was… kinda sweet?”
“No, it wasn’t,” you replied, your tone leaving no room for argument.
“Yeah, it was.”
You avoided his gaze, focusing intently on the chart in your hands. Perhaps it had been, a little.
As you checked his vitals, his attention never wavered from you. He watched your every movement with a focus that bordered on reverent, as if he were trying to memorize the shape of your hands, the rhythm of your breath, to decode the very essence of your being.
And then, he broke the silence with another disarming truth.
“I like your voice.”
Your hands stilled. “What?”
“Your voice. It’s… calm,” he elaborated, his own voice soft. “I don’t hear calm things. Usually, it’s just people screaming. Or begging me to stop doing something.”
You bit the inside of your lip, the taste of copper a faint tang on your tongue. He spoke with such brutal, unvarnished honesty, seemingly unaware of how deeply he was exposing the fractured soul beneath the mask.
“What’s your name?” you asked, the question leaving your lips before you could reconsider.
He froze, the casual ease vanishing in an instant. “Can’t,” he said, the word sharp and immediate. “Vigilante 101: no revealing the secret identity. It’s, like, the first rule. Peacemaker yells at me all the time because I… well… because I almost do it sometimes. But I can’t. It’s serious.”
“It’s okay,” you reassured him, lifting your hands in a placating gesture. “You can keep your secrets.”
“Thank you.”
“For what?”
“For respecting it.”
You raised an eyebrow, a small, silent acknowledgment. Then, you offered a piece of yourself in return. “My name is Y/N.”
The silence that descended upon the room was no longer empty. It was dense, warm, and fragile, charged with the weight of the trust you had just exchanged. He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if steeling himself for a suicide mission.
“I'm vigilante." he whispered, the name a sacred confession in the sterile quiet.
Your heart stuttered, nearly missing a beat. You had read the reports, heard the whispers from cops, seen his nickname in internal bulletins. A disgraced DA. A volatile force of nature. You were supposed to feel fear. But the emotion that bloomed in your chest was something else entirely, something warmer and more dangerous. It was the feeling that the name, soft and human, fit him perfectly.
“Hi, Vigilante,” you said, your voice impossibly soft. “It’s nice to officially meet you.”
He smiled behind the mask. You couldn’t see it, but you saw the way his eyes crinkled at the corners, narrowing into an expression that could mean nothing else.
The doctor entered with a suture kit, the sterile clatter of instruments breaking the fragile intimacy you had built. Your role here was technically over; the baton was passed. You could have left. You should have. It was the unspoken rule of the job: don't get attached, don't linger, move on to the next crisis. But your feet felt rooted to the linoleum floor, tethered by an invisible thread to the man on the gurney who was now staring at the approaching physician with the wide-eyed terror of a cornered animal.
"Alright, let's get this closed," the doctor said, his tone brisk and practical. "I need you to remove the mask."
Vigilante froze. It wasn't just a refusal; it was a full-body lockdown. His eyes widened behind the lenses, his breath catching in his throat as if the doctor had asked him to strip bare his very soul. "NO. I CAN'T." The words were a raw, panicked shout, echoing in the small room.
"Friend, I need to suture the laceration on your jawline," the doctor insisted, a note of impatience creeping into his voice. "I'm not going to touch the rest of your face."
"I can't!" Vigilante's voice cracked, his body pressing back into the thin mattress as if trying to phase through it. "My mask is my… it's my face! Without it, I… I don't…" His words disintegrated into a helpless stammer. A violent tremor ran through him, a tremor that spoke of deep-seated trauma, of a psyche so fractured that the mask wasn't a costume—it was a carapace, the only thing holding him together. He was shrinking, collapsing in on himself, reliving a nightmare right before your eyes.
You moved without conscious thought, stepping between the doctor's clinical impatience and his raw, unraveling panic. "Vigilante," you called, your voice a low, steady anchor in the storm of his fear. "Look at me."
His gaze, glassy and desperate, snapped to yours. The bright, curious light you'd seen earlier was gone, replaced by the primal sheen of pure terror.
"Listen to me," you continued, your tone leaving no room for argument. "This needs to be closed. If it gets infected, the damage will be far worse, and I promise you, the process will be a thousand times more painful and invasive." Slowly, deliberately, you reached out and placed your hand over his, which was clenched into a white-knuckled fist on the sheet.
His reaction was instantaneous. His hand flipped over and seized yours, his grip crushing, desperate. It was the grip of a drowning man who had just been thrown a lifeline. He was holding on to you as if you were the only solid thing in a world that was spinning out of control. He took a breath—a ragged, desperate gasp—and then another, slower one, his eyes locked on yours, obeying your unspoken command to breathe.
"I… I… can't take it all off," he whispered, the confession torn from him. "I'm serious. I'm dead serious. But I can… lift it. Just enough. If… if you stay here."
"I'm not going anywhere," you promised, your voice firm.
He gave a jerky, trembling nod. With his free hand, his movements hesitant and clumsy, he hooked his fingers under the bottom edge of the mask. He paused for one last, agonizing second, his eyes searching yours for reassurance, and then he lifted it. Just enough to reveal the lower half of his face—from the nose down.
The sight struck you with a physical force, a punch to the gut that stole your breath. He was… young. Far younger than the myth of the Vigilante suggested. He had a strong, clean jawline and a mouth with soft, almost timid lips, now parted slightly in anxious anticipation. There was a vulnerability there that was utterly disarming, a heartbreaking contrast to the brutal, chaotic legend he embodied. This wasn't the face of a monster; it was the face of a man, and the dissonance was so profound it left you reeling.
He saw your reaction, the subtle intake of breath, the way your eyes widened for a fraction of a second. He swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Is it… ugly?" he asked, his voice so small and stripped of its usual bravado that it barely reached you.
"No," you answered, too quickly, the word coming out with an intensity that surprised even you. "No. It's not."
"Oh." He blinked, surprise flickering in the visible part of his face. "That's… rare."
The doctor worked efficiently, stitching the wound with practiced hands. Throughout the entire procedure, Vigilante's grip on your hand never loosened. His eyes remained fixed on you, wide and unblinking, as if you were a sacred icon, the only thing keeping the demons at bay. You were his focal point, his sanctuary. When it was over, he yanked the mask back down with a swift, almost ashamed motion, as if he had exposed something far more intimate than mere skin. But he still didn't let go of your hand.
"Thank you," he murmured, the words muffled slightly by the fabric. "I… I don't usually like touching human skin. It's… a lot. But touching yours was… an interesting experience."
The statement, so bizarre and yet so earnestly delivered, sent a sharp, unexpected pang through your chest. It wasn't pity. It was a profound, aching understanding of just how isolated he truly was.
--
When he was finally cleared for discharge, you helped him sit up, your hand a steadying presence on his back. The spell was breaking; the real world was intruding. "I need to get back to my shift," you said, the words feeling inadequate.
He froze, the momentary peace shattering. "You're… leaving?"
"Yes. I have to work."
"But… what if I fall? Or if someone attacks me on the way out? Or if I pass out again? Or if I…" His words began to tumble out faster, a rising tide of panic, each scenario more frantic than the last.
You placed a firm hand on his shoulder, cutting off the spiral. "Vigilante. Breathe. You're going to be fine."
He swallowed hard, his eyes becoming glassy once more. "Will you… will you come back?"
"Maybe," you said, and a small, genuine smile touched your lips. "Evergreen is a dangerous city. I'll probably see you around."
He took a deep, shuddering breath, as if storing that single, non-committal "maybe" in a secret reservoir of hope. It was a flimsy shield, but he clung to it.
"Okay." A pause, filled with the hum of the hospital and the frantic beating of his own heart. "I liked… you. Like… a lot. But not in a creepy way. In the… 'you're the coolest person who has ever held my organs inside my body' way. That way."
You laughed, a soft, real sound that seemed to startle him. He blushed—you could see it in the way the skin around his eyes crinkled, a fascinating tell.
"Goodbye, Vigilante," you said, turning to leave.
"Bye…" he whispered, the word sounding foreign and difficult on his tongue. Then, as your hand touched the door handle, he found his voice again, stronger now. "I'll see you again. It's not a threat. It's just… I want to."
You walked out of the room carrying a feeling that made no logical sense whatsoever—a heavy, warm, complicated weight in the center of your being. And behind you, Vigilante watched until the door hissed shut, his gaze boring into the metal, memorizing the shape of your exit as if he could reassemble you from the memory.
---
Out in the fluorescent-bright hallway, your partner fell into step beside you, shaking his head. "So," he grunted, nodding back towards the room. "Who the hell is that guy?"
You took a deep breath, the sterile air filling your lungs, but it did nothing to clear the strange, emotional fog. You thought of the crushing grip of his hand, the terror in his eyes, the softness of his hidden mouth, and the devastating vulnerability he had entrusted to you.
And you said the first and most profound truth you could formulate.
"Someone I am absolutely certain is going to be a great deal of trouble."
————
The first time was a coincidence, a simple twist of fate easily dismissed. The second time was strange, a pattern beginning to form at the edges of your reality. By the third time, your colleagues had started a betting pool. The man known as Vigilante was weaving himself into the fabric of your life with the subtlety of a sledgehammer.
The second visit had been a masterpiece of absurdity. The automatic doors of the ER had hissed open to reveal him standing there, not bleeding or broken, but adopting a theatrical, chest-heaving cough. He’d stumbled up to the triage desk, his gloved hand pressed dramatically to his chest.
“Ahem! Cough! Excuse me,” he’d wheezed, his voice a ridiculous caricature of infirmity. “I believe I’m… cough… coming down with something… dire.”
You’d stared, unamused, as he leaned conspiratorially over the counter. “It feels… tickly. And my… sinuses feel… strategic.”
“Strategic sinuses?” you’d asked, your voice flat.
“Yes! Like they’re planning a… a tactical retreat. Or maybe an ambush. It’s hard to say.” He’d then launched into a coughing fit that was less a symptom of illness and more a performance for a Shakespearean tragedy. “I was hoping for a… diagnosis. From a professional. Preferably you.”
You’d simply pointed to the hand sanitizer station. “Use that. And get out.”
His shoulders had slumped, the act evaporating instantly. “Oh. Okay. It was worth a try.” And he’d left, dejected but not defeated.
---
And then came the third time, the one that cemented his legend.
The shift that night was calm— a little too calm, the kind of quiet that felt like the city was holding its breath. The silence was broken not by a cry for help, but by a single, distinct ding against the nursing station's counter. It wasn't a normal tap. It was a calculated, dramatic, metallic ding—a sound that was inherently, unmistakably… him.
You lifted your eyes from the chart in your hands.
And there he was.
Vigilante. Standing in the middle of the hushed corridor at 2:27 in the morning. He was a statue of black Kevlar and misplaced intent, completely out of context, a glitch in the sterile simulation of the hospital. He looked less like a creature of the night and more like a very lost, very armed tourist.
“Hi!” he waved a gloved hand, his enthusiasm far too bright for someone supposedly in the middle of a nocturnal crime-fighting patrol. “I was patrolling the area and, would you look at that, an absolutely absurd coincidence, like… a fated one… I saw you coming in for your shift and I thought: ‘Wow! What an incredible synchronicity! Let me just… pop in and ensure your personal safety parameters are optimal.’”
You furrowed your brow, a familiar mix of exasperation and a strange, unwelcome fondness stirring in your chest. “Vigilante… this is my place of work. Not an active warzone.”
He shrugged, a gesture that made his tactical gear rustle, as if this minor detail were utterly irrelevant. “Emergencies are statistically unpredictable! People slip on wet floors all the time. Hospital utensils can be surprisingly hazardous. Syringes exist!” he declared, as if revealing a profound universal truth. “I’m just… you know… performing a proactive security sweep. For your benefit.”
Behind you, your colleague Camila observed the scene, a half-eaten pastry frozen in her hand, her eyebrow arched so high it threatened to disappear into her hairline.
“Is he here again?” she murmured, her voice a low whisper laced with amusement.
“Unfortunately,” you whispered back, the word sounding weak even to your own ears.
“Can I please write your name and his on the betting pool whiteboard? Because I’m getting a serious…” She made a small, circular gesture with her hand, as if stirring a pot. “…chemistry vibe.”
You sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose. “There is no—”
“HI CAMILA!” Vigilante interrupted, waving enthusiastically at her as if she were a long-lost confidante.
Camila blinked, slowly. “My God, he knows my name. I’m officially terrified.”
You’re terrified? You thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling in your throat. I’m the one he’s apparently decided is his personal damsel in distress.
---
Two nights later, the pattern escalated from bizarre to surreal. You were on your way to retrieve a patient chart from the trauma wing when a soft, metallic clang from above gave you pause. You ignored it. Then another. Clang. Clang.
A slow, dreadful suspicion coiled in your stomach. You looked up.
Vigilante was prone on the ceiling tiles, his face pressed against the grille of a ventilation panel like a disastrously clumsy cat observing its human from a bookshelf. A few stray fibers of insulation dusted his black mask.
“AH!” he exclaimed, his voice muffled but brimming with triumph. “I knew your patrol route would bring you through this sector eventually! I triangulated your most probable path based on the mental map I constructed of the hospital’s circadian rhythms last night.”
You simply blinked, your brain struggling to process the image.
“You made a mental map of the hospi—”
“Not just mental!” he interjected proudly. With a grunt, he managed to wiggle one arm free and pull a crumpled, massive piece of paper from a pouch on his belt. He shoved it through the grille. It fluttered down into your hands. “A physical one too! See?”
It was a horrifically drawn map of the hospital layout, rendered in frantic, waxy crayon. The pediatric ward was illustrated with stick-figure children smiling next to crudely drawn skulls, which were labeled in a tight, paranoid script: “Potential Hostile Vectors (The small ones are the most unpredictable).”
You took a deep, steadying breath, the kind you usually reserved for families screaming in the waiting room. “Vigilante… you cannot be in the ceiling.”
“Why not?” he asked, genuine confusion in his tone.
“Because it’s… it’s strange. And unsanitary. And structurally questionable.”
He looked offended, his lenses narrowing. “This is advanced, three-dimensional risk assessment for patient and staff security! You can’t achieve this level of situational awareness from the ground floor!”
At that moment, Camila and the technician, João, walked by, their heads tilted back to take in the scene. João stopped dead in his tracks.
“Is he in the ceiling now?” Yoshida asked, his voice flat with disbelief.
Camila pumped a fist in the air, a wide, victorious grin spreading across her face. “Bingo!” she cheered. “I called ‘ceiling stalker’ for tonight’s round. Pay up, Yoshida. I told you the escalation was exponential.”
---
Yoshida handed Camila a crumpled bill without taking his eyes off Vigilante, who remained pressed against the ceiling like an oversized, inconvenient bat glued to the hospital’s infrastructure.
“This is… this is irregular,” Yoshida muttered, pointing at him as if identifying a large nocturnal animal that had chosen the worst possible place to perch. “Like… very irregular. Like… the kind of irregularity that shows up in an accreditation audit.”
“I am enhancing the team’s operational efficiency,” Vigilante countered, with the religious conviction of someone preaching in a grocery store. “From a distance.”
You massaged your temple, feeling your soul attempt to leave your body for the second time that week. “Get down. Now.”
“Oh! Sure!” he replied with the enthusiasm of a dog that finally heard the word walk. “But just a minute, I need to position my center of gravity at an angle that minimizes collateral damage.”
Which, naturally, meant he fell out of the ceiling with the loudest crash imaginable.
The impact echoed down the corridor, a THUMP so intense that a nurse in the nearby room screamed and dropped an IV bag. Vigilante shot up immediately with an awkward jumping jack, as if trying to convince everyone that he had planned that exact moment.
“See?” he said, pointing proudly at himself. “Zero fractures. Training pays off.”
Camila stared at him, wide-eyed. “You fell out of the ceiling.”
“On purpose! To test the structural integrity of the hospital flooring. It’s per-fect. Excellent use of taxpayer money.”
You closed your eyes, took a deep breath, and attempted to locate somewhere in your psyche a remaining shred of patience. You did not find one.
“Vigilante,” you began, voice low, calm, professional—the exact tone used right before administering a benzodiazepine. “I need you to stop… vigilante-ing me. You’re turning the hospital into a hidden-camera show.”
His reaction was immediate—an involuntary stiffness, like someone had hit the pause button. For a fragile instant, a single, human flicker passed through the mask: surprise, hesitation… almost fear.
“But…” he scratched at his helmet, the gesture clumsy and childlike. “I thought… I don’t know… that I was helping.”
Your heart tugged in your chest, betraying you in your mission to feel absolutely nothing for this extremely dangerous and extremely stupid man.
Before you could respond, the hospital intercom crackled to life, dragging you back to reality.
“Trauma ward, room 3. Nursing requested stat.”
You swallowed your tired sigh. “I have to go.”
“I’ll go with you,” he said instantly.
“No, you will not.”
“But what if it’s dangerous?”
“It’s a hospital. It’s always dangerous.”
He seemed to seriously consider this for half a second, then nodded with firm, heroic—completely unnecessary—determination.
“Then I definitely need to go.”
You felt three pairs of eyes watching you: Camila, João, and the entire universe cheering for the chaos.
“Stay. Here.” You pointed at the floor like you were training an especially anxious dog.
Vigilante froze.
“O-okay.”
He lifted both hands slowly, obedient, though his posture made it very clear he planned to interpret that order as flexibly as possible.
You turned and started toward trauma.
You didn’t make it three steps before hearing the extremely subtle sound of boots attempting to follow behind you.
You stopped.
He stopped.
You looked back.
He looked at the ceiling.
“Vigilante.”
“…Yes?”
“You’re following me.”
“No I’m not!”
You crossed your arms.
He pointed dramatically at an electrical outlet in the wall. “I was… examining… this… outlet. It looks… electrically suspicious.”
“Back.”
“O-okay.”
He took three steps backward—then promptly tripped over his own foot and slammed into the wall with a grunt.
Camila sighed, sounding either genuinely sympathetic or deeply amused. Hard to tell. “You should really keep him on a leash next time.”
You rolled your eyes and kept walking.
And as you disappeared down the hallway, you heard his voice—quiet, small, unaware that he was speaking out loud.
“I just… wanted to make sure she was safe.”
The word safe echoed inside you in a dangerous way.
Way more dangerous than him crawling around in the ceiling.
Of course he didn't heard me and pretended that he was leaving.
The trauma bay was a flurry of motion when you arrived—monitors beeping, gloves snapping, the sharp metallic clicks of instruments being prepared. You slipped into your role instantly, steady, focused.
And he slipped into his, too.
Which apparently meant: “Uninvited hallway sentinel of questionable value.”
Vigilante stood directly outside the trauma room, spine straight, arms rigid at his sides like a toy soldier someone forgot to pack away. Every time a doctor or nurse passed by, he either jumped aside dramatically or tried to “help” by opening the door and nearly hitting someone in the face.
“Sir—please—stop touching the door,” Dr. Rivera snapped after the third collision.
Then he stood even more out, flattening himself against the wall like a decal in tactical gear.
Another doctor approached with a suture tray. Vigilante panicked, decided she was in danger for absolutely no reason, and tried to walk backward while saluting her.
He immediately bumped into the crash cart, making it roll ten centimeters.
“Don’t move that,” a nurse warned.
“I didn’t move it.”
“You just moved it.”
“No I didn’t—okay, but technically I moved and it followed physics.”
“Please stop existing,” she begged.
Through the window of the trauma bay, you saw all of this. You saw far too much of this. And as the patient stabilized, your patience absolutely did not.
You stepped into the hallway.
He straightened instantly. “Oh! Good news! Your sector is clear of threats. Except the crash cart. That thing’s aggressive.”
“Vigilante,” you whispered, shifting into the exhausted-parent tone you swore you’d never use, “PLEASE. For the love of every deity known to humankind… go home.”
He recoiled, wounded. “Home? But what if you have more patients? What if someone throws a scalpel? What if the ceiling falls again? What if—”
You held up a hand.
“Stop before you invent a disaster and manifest it into existence.”
He stopped.
Barely.
You continued, “You need to either go home or find someone who actually needs help before the security team kicks you out for the second time.”
He looked at the floor. “They wouldn’t.”
As if summoned by cosmic comedic timing, the head of security turned the corner, saw him, and groaned audibly.
“Oh God. Not you again.”
Vigilante pointed at him. “Coincidence! I was just leaving!”
“You told me that last time,” the guard muttered.
“And I meant it! I just walked… very slow… in a loop… around the building… and then back inside.”
“OUT.”
Vigilante flinched and turned to you, his voice smaller. “They’re gonna call psych again, aren’t they?”
“YES,” the security guard replied from far down the hall.
You resisted the urge to facepalm. “Vigilante… please. Go. Help another citizen. A jaywalker. A bicycle thief. Someone microwaving fish in an apartment building. Anyone.”
“But you might need—”
“I need you to leave before these doctors decide you’re a clinical case.”
He hesitated. For once, really hesitated.
Then he nodded, grudgingly.
“Okay. I’ll go.”
He took one step.
Stopped.
Looked back.
“But if you don’t text me when your shift ends to confirm you’re alive, I will—”
“NO.”
“—I will—”
“NO.”
“—conduct a full tactical sweep of—”
“Vigilante.”
“You can’t stop me.”
“Oh my God.”
He backed away, finger pointed at you in dramatic, heroic farewell, nearly tripping over a recycling bin but recovering with a flourish as if that had also been part of the plan.
Camila appeared beside you, biting into her pastry again.
“He’s absolutely in love with you,” she said through a mouthful of chocolate.
You stared down the hallway where he disappeared, shaking your head.
“No. He’s just… misguided.”
From far away, echoing:
“I’M NOT MISGUIDED, I’M STRATEGICALLY EMOTIONAL!”
Camila smirked. “Mm-hm. Sure. That sounds like love to me.”
You groaned. “Don’t start.”
“I won the betting pool tonight,” she sang. “Ceiling entry AND hallway distressing. Double prize.”
You threw your head back and sighed.
And somewhere outside, very faintly, you heard:
“DON’T WORRY, EVERYONE! I’LL PATROL THE PARKING LOT TO ENSURE HER VEHICLE IS HOSTILE-FREE!”
The rain was coming down hard over Evergreen, like the sky had decided to wash the entire city with one giant bucket. It was almost two in the morning when the ambulance radio crackled to life, slicing through the sleepy silence of the night shift.
“Unit 14, emergency in the abandoned industrial zone, west sector. Possible stab wound. Suspect unknown.”
Your partner looked at you, exhausted, but you felt that cold drop in your stomach instantly. This wasn’t a normal call. Nothing in that sector ever was. The industrial area had turned into a hideout for dealers, fugitives, and… unhinged vigilantes who thought they were immortal.
You pulled your gloves on, took a steady breath, and answered over the radio:
“Unit 14 en route.”
The ambulance sped through the wet road, and you felt the adrenaline start to kick in. Part of you liked it — the unknown, the unpredictable, the chance to make a difference. The other part just wanted a quiet night, but quiet was something Evergreen didn’t really do.
When you reached the address, the scene looked even stranger. The warehouse gate was half-open, shattered lights flickered like they were seconds from dying completely, and there were drag marks on the floor. Your partner hesitated.
“You sure it’s safe to go in?”
You cleared your throat, adjusted your flashlight, and answered with the blunt honesty of someone who has seen too much:
“Of course not.”
And you both went in anyway.
The warehouse was too silent. Some distant dripping echoed, mixing with the muffled sound of the rain outside. And then — a groan.
“Ahhhh… I think I’m dead…”
You immediately pointed your flashlight toward the sound. And there, sitting on the floor, leaning against a stack of old crates, was a man wearing such a ridiculous outfit that for a second you thought someone was pranking you.
Black suit clinging to his body, red mask, goggles reflecting your light. And blood. Blood running down his side.
“Vigilante…?” your partner whispered, stunned.
Yep. It was him. You’d recognize that stupid mask even in pitch darkness.
He raised a trembling hand.
“Hi… you’re real paramedics, right? This… this isn’t a dream? Because I think my soul is leaving my body. And I don’t know where it’s going, because technically I did good things, but I also killed some bad people, so I don’t really know what the policy is on that.”
The mix of desperation, drama, and unintentional humor caught you off guard. You rushed over to him.
“I need you to stay quiet. You’re conscious, but you’ve lost a lot of blood.”
“Oh, so I’m not dead?” he asked with almost childlike hope.
“Not yet,” you replied while opening the kit.
“Not yet?” he repeated, offended. “You… you could’ve worded that in a more positive way.”
You fought the urge to laugh.
Your partner approached his wound, but Vigilante flinched hard.
“NO!” he yelled, sounding like a startled cat. “Only she can touch me. His hands are suspicious.”
“My hands are the same as hers,” your partner snapped, irritated.
“No they’re not! She has trustworthy hands. Yours have the energy of… uh… a guy who gambles money playing cards.”
You had to breathe deep not to laugh out loud.
“Alright,” you said. “I’ll take care of it.”
Vigilante relaxed instantly, like his body had finally found a safe place in the middle of all the chaos. You began examining the wound: a deep slash along the side, probably from a short blade. Nothing vital was punctured, but there had been a lot of bleeding.
“What happened?” you asked as you pressed fresh gauze onto the wound.
“A fight…” he answered, then stopped. “Can’t tell you who. Secret identity and all. But… I can tell you I won. I mean… technically. Because if I’m here bleeding out and you’re holding me so I don’t pass out, maybe I didn’t win as much as I think.”
He gave a crooked smile behind the mask. And suddenly, for a moment, you saw something that surprised you: he was scared.
The Vigilante of Evergreen — the lunatic who fought criminals like he couldn’t die — was scared.
And it was you he didn’t want to lose sight of.
“Hey,” you said softly. “Look at me.”
He lifted his head, breathing hard.
“You’re going to be okay.”
“You promise?” he asked immediately, voice trembling. “Because I always promise things and nobody promises anything back.”
Your heart tightened. It was such a silly line, but it carried something much deeper.
“I promise,” you said, steady.
He relaxed again.
Your partner brought the stretcher, but Adrian — you didn’t know his name yet, though you could sense there was someone young behind that mask — tried to stand up first.
“I can walk! I’m strong. Really strong. Like… super strong. Just… just give me a second because my brain is… spinning a little…”
He collapsed right back onto the floor.
“Okay,” you sighed. “We’ll carry you.”
---
Once you finally set him on the stretcher, he grabbed your wrist — firm, but not aggressive.
“You’re not leaving, right?” he asked. “No,” you answered. “Okay. Then I can… close my eyes for a bit. Just a bit…”
And he went out cold.
You took a long breath, staring at his masked face — now still, vulnerable, nothing like the feared vigilante every gang talked about.
For some reason you couldn’t explain, it stirred something in you.
And right there — in that rainy dawn, in that filthy warehouse, with a dramatic, bleeding vigilante on a stretcher — something began.
Something you weren’t ready to admit. And he definitely wasn’t ready to feel.
#the amazing digital circus
#deltarune
#heated rivalry
#photography
