"Sir."
This elicits a chuckle from Brad. Despite the injury, he's still able to laugh, to find humor in things. Hell, you could argue it's because of the injury.
He follows to the room, clutching his injured shoulder.
"Got told you're. . . discreet. Hoping that's true."
The clanking of her heels resonate within the walls of her clinic—standing up from her seat to greet the new face; eyebrow raised.
“Follow me. Room to the right, sir.”
— the stranger, facing him head-on. Hands still in pockets, hoodie concealing the tactical vest he wears. Hidden hands still sporting bloody bandages; he's fresh off "work".
It seemed like he didn't notice. Like Bradley was none the wiser. But appearances can be deceiving; the truth can be a lie.
Hands in the pockets of his hoodie, the Monster advances through the streets until they become more and more desolated.
He stops in a closed-off —
⠀⠀
Trench coat tailing in the wind as he felt the rain pitter-patter on the leather coat, having been following the *𝑟𝑒𝑎𝑑𝑒𝑟 around the past sixty minutes, doing anything but concealing his own location, only staying a block or two behind at all times
⠀
— street. A five-block disconnection due to a recent superhero fight; debris needs to be cleared, safety measures need to be put in place. His pace slows down.
"You better have a good reason to be following me." Never losing momentum, he turns around, starting to walk towards —