A groan. Kizuki took off his glasses - allowing for the world to become a blur of empty streets and flickering lampposts - and attempted to wipe them on his shirt. The blood only smeared further on the lenses and, when Kizuki saw through them again, coated the world in a thin film of red. He considered spitting on the lenses in an attempt to clean them that way, but decided against it when he could still taste blood in his mouth from the earlier fight.

Serves me right for forgetting my contacts. I'm a dumbass.

An ironic smile. He consoled himself with the knowledge that he had not gotten blood on the fake fur of his jacket at least. Kizuki was not one to learn from his mistakes but he had learned that much at least: blood and fake fur did not mingle well. The slightly reddened rendition of the desolate night had a hint of charm to it. It was reminiscent of nightclub lights.

Dawn would break through the horizon in a matter of hours and Kizuki could feel sobriety creeping up. The man he had beaten up would not give him any more trouble - he hoped - but that night he sure had, from the bloodied face to a bruise on his collarbone that throbbed rhythmically. It would only hurt more if he sobered up completely - but years of that lifestyle had taught Kizuki how to avoid that, which street to walk to, which building to visit, which intercom intercom to ring, which back-alley doctor to bother. And he knew too that the doctor seldom left his office before dawn.

Kizuki breathed. He pressed the familiar intercom button and curiously felt the bruise as he waited for a reply. It had started stinging.

"Yo, doc! You in? Need to get me some pain meds mate!"