he never was good at remaining idle for too long. his position required him to be on the alert and the offensive at all times, and the title of ‘ independent assassin ‘ that he wore with pride served as nothing if not a target on his back. but he’d no choice but to wait it out, now —- the injuries he’d sustained had been too severe, and a quick release, an immediate return to the world of crime that he knew, too risky. ( legally dead for 25 seconds, the report came back. it left the nurses scratching their heads, the doctors frowning, but no questions were asked. better that way. ) and while the procedure had been a declared success, – they’d found an organ donor with haste, and only the best in the field had been hired to perform the surgery – recovery in and of itself would take time. days, weeks. he found himself restless, and irritable as a result; with the passing of each day, the feelings only intensified. this day in particular, his scowl is prominent, and he decides to perhaps try to close his eyes and rest just as the tell-tale sound of the doorknob jangling reaches his ears. a doctor, he thinks, or perhaps a nurse to check his vitals. but, no —- he casts his gaze upon another sight entirely. one that both lifts the frustrated gloom and causes his blood to boil all at once. ( there relationship was – if nothing else – rather complicated to define. )
