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“You.”

He falls into the chair across the room and puts his feet up on the old steam trunk he uses as a coffee table.

“Everything and nothing.”

Swallowing hard, I say, “I don’t understand.”

“Neither do I, Holly.”

“Are you bleeding?”

“Probably.”

“Did you crash your bike again?” Panic seizes me when I realize he could be hurt.

“No. I was in a fight.”

“What? With who? Why?”

He yanks the mask off, and tiny blue sparks of static electricity light up his head.

“A paid fight.”

My confusion and frustration mount. “I don’t know what that is.”

He sighs and leans his head back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. “It’s when people get paid to beat the shit out of each other. Like boxing, only dirtier.”

“When did you start doing that?”

“Years ago. I told you this once before.”

Yes, he did. But I didn’t think it was like this—leaving him bloody.

“But… why?”

He shrugs. “I only do it now when I need it.”

“When you need money? I’ll give you money; I have a bunch saved up. I don’t want you getting punched… or hurt…”

“No,” he croaks loudly. “Fuck. Not money.”

I stare at him, completely lost as to what’s going on here.

“Just stop, Holly.”

Ignoring him, I go to the kitchen and wet a paper towel. When I turn on the floor lamp next to him, I gasp at the blood dripping from his nose, some dried at the edge. Leaning over him, I gently wipe his face, and I smell alcohol on his breath.

“Isn’t this dangerous for your face?” I ask. “To get punched after all the skin grafts and surgery you’ve had? What about your throat? What if you got hit there?”

Without warning, he grabs my arm and pulls me onto his lap. “Stop fussing over my fucking face.”

“Have you been drinking?”

“A little.”

“Ty…” I’m confused and disappointed, and not at all sure what to say.

“You shouldn’t be here. I’m in a real bad fucking mood.”