He grips the metal post next to him, holding onto it for dear life as he pushes himself with all his might off the ground to his feet.
Staggering forward, the world is blurry and the street lights look like distorted stars too close for comfort as he navigates the dark alley.
Your voice in his head, berating him, telling him to be careful is so loud, as though you're there.A particularly painful, stabbing pain in his abdomen brings him back to reality.
He really shouldn't be surprised that he ended up in this situation, but it still hurt regardless to think about how he ended up here.
His feet feel like lead, fighting to be one with the cold concrete pavement below him. But he pushes forward, cutting off the roots as they form in every slow step he took.
You'd be such a great help right now, supporting his weight, helping him get somewhere safe where he didn't have to look over his shoulder to make sure no one took advantage of him in this situation.
He'd hate every minute of getting patched up, but it'd be worth it in the end, because you'd be there to hold him.
The cold air is stabbing him right where your body was supposed to be. He tries not to think about it too much.
Thankfully, his mask is still on. Dead, but still on his face. A small mercy he decides to be reluctantly thankful for despite everything.
Soon, he's able to find one of the many safehouses they all have around Gotham. It takes all his willpower to make sure that everything is secure before he collapses into a tired mass of limbs on the floor.
At least this floor is clean, and safe.
He has to constantly remind himself he is safe.
Especially with how hazy everything is to him. The floor itself seemed to be melting, he didn't want to touch anything, lest it slip through his fingers.
Like you did.
But at least he's safe.
You won't find him here.
He couldn't decide what hurt worse: your absence, or the knife you left stuck inside him.