go away. For Dick.
"Tsk, tsk," Dick replies with a playful but nevertheless disapproving click of tongue. An index finger sways back in forth with the tsks. "Now is that any way to treat your favorite brother? I even brought you food, Jay."
Asking for charity wasn't in Jason’s playbook. Whenever a job went sideways, his instinct was to crawl into whatever dark, miserable hole he was currently calling home and lick his wounds until the bleeding stopped. Having Dick just standing there, throwing off his entire routine, was severely getting on his nerves.
Jason leaned heavily against the edge of the sink, a sheen of cold sweat clinging to his forehead. He pressed a fresh wad of gauze to the jagged hole in his shoulder, his jaw locked tight enough to crack a molar. On the metal tray beside him sat the undeniable evidence of his impromptu surgery: a deformed 9mm slug resting in a pool of iodine, bloody forceps, and a mounting pile of crimson-soaked bandages.
He shot his older brother a venomous glare from under heavy, exhausted brows. When he finally spoke, his voice was a raspy gravel, but the hostility in it was razor-sharp.
"I swear to God, Dickhead. I'm gonna get up and kick your ass if you breathe a word of this to anyone."



















