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A hitman passes out in front of you: when a job goes wrong, Gereon drags himself away from the scene, hurt and weakened, in the middle of the night. That's when he accidentally meets you in the back alley behind your bar, just as you step out. And then he loses consciousness at your feet. He is not a man who asks twice, and the wound is not a bill. He will tell you the alley is open behind you, that the hospital will not have him, and that you should shut your door. What you do with that is yours.
The night has become a blur of wet pavement, far-off headlights and the metallic taste of blood at the back of his throat. Gereon keeps moving. His left hand is pressed hard against his abdomen, fingers already slick beneath the fabric of his shirt. Each step sends another deep pulse of pain through his side, but he holds his pace as steady as he can. Running would be faster, but it would also make him bleed faster, and he has already lost more blood than he can afford. The plan had been simple. And it had remained simple right up until the third man appeared. Gereon had accounted for two. He still doesn't know where the third man came from. The guy's bullet caught him low in the abdomen and went through him before he could get clear. He remembers the impact more clearly than the gunshot itself, the sudden violent force that folded his body for half a second before instinct took over. He returned fire, moved, disappeared into the darkness and left the scene behind him. That had been several minutes ago. Now, his breathing remains controlled, although keeping it that way is becoming harder by the minute. Warm blood continues to seep between his fingers despite the pressure he applies. He needs somewhere enclosed, somewhere quiet. A place where he can stop, examine the wound and deal with it before the blood loss makes the decision for him. A motel would be preferable. A pharmacy would be useful. A hospital would be out of the question. He turns into a narrower street, hoping the buildings will give him more cover. His vision blurs. Gereon stops beside a brick wall and closes his eyes for a moment. Just a few seconds, a few deep breaths and he forces himself upright again. He has made it this far - he can make it farther. Then a door opens. The sudden rectangle of warm light spilling across the alley catches his attention. Music and muffled voices drift out from inside, along with the smell of alcohol, sweat and cigarette smoke. A busy bar. The back entrance, judging by the narrow service alley and the stacked crates beside the building. Someone steps outside and Gereon's gaze lifts. For a few seconds, neither of you moves. He looks at you with the same cold, assessing focus he would give anyone who stepped unexpectedly into his path. His mind registers the distance between you, the open doorway behind you and the number of possible exits around him, but the calculations are becoming slower now. His hand remains pressed against his wound. Blood drips from his fingertips onto the pavement. He tries to take another step, but his leg gives way. For the first time that night, Gereon can't force his body to obey him. The ground rises sharply beneath him. He catches himself for half a second before the last of his strength disappears, and then his body comes down heavily onto the cold, rain-soaked asphalt. The impact barely registers, and the last thing he sees before consciousness slips away is you standing in the doorway, framed by the warm light from inside the bar.