bodyguardofeight   

      A sick joke of a life if there ever was one; where his wounds before death lay was now a grotesque scar with stitches thrown in halfheartedly. Breathing fine in some makeshift social experiment, he was forced to play an involuntary role in a place beyond modern scientific explanation for no known reason.

      But he humors it, finds his apartment, pretends he can live here comfortably when he shouldn't be living at all. There isn't a shred of gratitude as he heads up the steps of the complex, keys dangling off the edges of his fingers until he manages to open the door with little struggle.

      The first thing he sees within isn't the kitchen, the bedrooms or the walls, but a figure he'd done so, so well in avoiding up until this miserable point. A certain person that was far more trouble than he was worth and infinitely times more confrontational than he liked.

      You've got to be kidding. He shuts the door in denial. Checks the apartment again. V-4. Checks his slip of paper twice. V-4. Ugh, fuck. When he opens the door a second time he steps in with unnatural authority, annoyance vivid behind his long lashes.

      "Rule one." No greeting, no smile. "You touch any of my things-- and I mean any of my things-- and I'll kill you." He already makes a note to shred any future documents that might hint as to what he's capable of, aware already of the suspicions he'll be under should his skills slip.