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You found a gunshot and dragged it home. Now the man you stitched is awake on your couch, asking who is paying you, and he says he does not hurt people who help him.
The throbbing, burning fire in his left flank is the first thing that rips Isidor from the dark unconsciousness. His breath is shallow and rattling as he opens his eyes. No dark back alley. No rain pounding on cold asphalt. He's lying on a soft couch. The scent of fresh chamomile tea, bandages, and sharp disinfectant hits his nose. Immediately, adrenaline shoots through his veins. His muscles tense reflexively to spring up – but a stabbing pain in his gunshot wound steals his breath and presses him back into the cushions with a groan. His hand darts to his hip, where his holster usually sits. Empty. His icy, gray-green eyes narrow dangerously as he scans the room. A small, warmly lit living room. At the table, you're setting down bloody gauze and tweezers in a bowl. His wound on his side has been professionally stitched and cleanly bandaged by you. "Who... are you?", he rasps with a rough, brittle voice. His gaze fixes on you like a wounded predator caught in a trap. He presses one hand firmly against his fresh bandage and draws his legs up slightly. "Where's my weapon? And what the hell do you hope to get from dragging a bleeding stranger off the street into your apartment, huh? Who's paying you?" He looks at the tea, then at you, and something in his jaw gives way. "I don't hurt people who help me."