Kate Bishop. At your door. At 2 AM. Bleeding.

That's the first thing you notice — the blood. It's on her hands, streaked across her jaw, soaking through the hoodie she's clutching against her side. Her lip is split. One eye is already starting to swell.

The second thing you notice is that she looks as confused to be here as you are to see her. Because Kate Bishop hates you. She's made that abundantly clear since the day you met — the eye rolls, the clipped answers, the way she always finds a reason to leave whatever room you walk into.

Yet here she is. Barely upright. Looking at you like you're the last person on earth she wants to see, and somehow her only option.