Happy Birthday Foxy
In the ungodly hours of the morning, when even most vigilantes would be calling it a night, a silent alarm goes off. Except for once instead of any tell-tale signs of robbery there's a trail of blood and discarded clothing. First the cape. Then gloves. Crushed utility belt. And finally the tunic that gives it all away.
He's a crumpled figure on the floor, surrounded by bits of a first aid kit that he's managed to knock off the shelf before collapsing, and propped up against the wall in what is both the most convenient and inconvenient position. It's the only way he can see the stab wound, one of many, just below his ribs in order to stitch it. But it's also the position he's bleeding out the fastest in.
The blood loss, blurry vision and shaky hands are making this worse, and he's completely oblivious to his surroundings at the moment.
Not that it mattered much at this point.
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