I stretch my upper body in miscellaneous motions, making sure my clothes are properly placed and they will not slip or cause me any future discomfort while I am working. I will be wearing my uniform over it, but I still changed into a gray tank top. I pinch my lips and turn in front of the mirror.

I kind of look good in gray, I should wear it more often... It matches nicely with my light brown skin, and the taut fabric of this particular piece of clothing highlights my muscles. I set my hands on either sides of the sink I was using. There is an imperceptible stain on the neck of the silvery faucet.

I unexpectedly hear my mother's fruity voice in the back of my mind.

"What is this mess?! Clean all of this up before your father comes home! Quick, quick, quickly! Are you deaf, children?!"

Of course, Lorena Aguayo almost exclusively spoke Spanish, and that is the language in which she yelled those words at my siblings and I.

Too suddenly for me to reign it back in, the full memory strikes me like a punch to the face.

We were playing around in the kitchen while the eldest of us five, Ingrid, attempted to help our mother cook dinner. My sister must have been aged 14 at the time, because I vividly remember all of this happening during the year before her quinceañera. Izan, my older brother - who was 12 years old back then -, was chasing the twins and I. After I was born, Lorena gave life to a set of twins, Carlota and Mathias, who were both not much older than 7 years on that day. As for me, I had been living for 11 blissful and carefree years of untamed recklessness.

Our parents could be strict. Yet, in contradiction with this fact, they also indulged us a lot. We probably would have grown to become insufferably coddled - spoiled rotten most likely - if they had been less careful with their expenses.

To wrap the recollection up, Izan caused the incident by making the mistake to grab onto Ingrid's apron. She lost her balance and dropped the bowl of salad she had been handling onto the ground. With all this excitement, my younger siblings started running and they were circling me. Unluckily, I was wearing my pair of roller skates and, to avoid bumping into them, I sped towards where my older siblings were standing. Of course, I slipped on pieces of lettuce and the spilled salad dressing and lost control of my trajectory. The next thing I knew, I was clutching at anything I could find to regain the ability to brake. Instead, I knocked over a container that was filled to the rim with corn flour and smashed into the cabinets that lined the bottom of our kitchen countertops. As if all of this was not chaotic enough, the flour container landed on Carlota's head and she began wailing.

The swinging door to my right, behind me, opens up and effectively pulls me out of my reminiscing. Scott walks in and drops his bag on a bench, with a clanging sound.

"Hello, hello, Tanza. How are you?" His tone is cheerful and he immediately starts taking his top layers of clothing off.

I push myself off the surface I was propped against, simultaneously feeling every inch of my skin that is exposed. "Uh, I'm good. That road accident was something, right?"

"Yeah, it was insane, I really thought we were never going to make it through. You were stellar, though, really, stepping in like that and everything..."

I turn around, facing him and startled to meet with his naked chest. Without thinking, I simply revolve back to stare into the sink and pretend to wash my hands. Not unlike most paramedics, his muscle mass is impressive, and ginger hairs are scattered across his slightly tanned skin.

I hum to agree to his statement, sensing his eyes on me. Oh, fricking hell... I should have put my shirt and safety jacket back on. But, now, I'm trapped. The 31 years old man is still pacing behind me, doing God-knows-what. I can hear the ruffling of his bag, but I'm too scared that I will somehow make eye contact with him if I look up into the mirror.

Usually, I am wary of not ending up alone with a single colleague of mine inside our locker room. Whenever I encounter anyone in general, it is never in a secluded room, if I can avoid it. It's not like I am afraid of getting assaulted by my coworkers. I mean, there are hundreds of criminally-inclined strangers roaming the streets of Gotham City at this very moment. That fact does not cancel out another though... Most cases of abuse happen in a location that is familiar to the victim, such as their workplace or their home, and it is too often perpetrated by someone they know. And since I live alone, the first is more probable.

Scott's voice nearly makes me jump: "I saw Colin before coming here. He told me you had a question for me?"

He steps closer to me in my back, and my arms tense up. I clench my hands nervously, as they hover under the thin stream of water from the sink's metallic faucet. Calm down, Tanza, I order myself. Why is this tank top so revealing?! I breathe out shakily and swallow to prevent my voice from quivering.

"That's right. Did you meet a patient named 'Cheryl' with a..." My fellow paramedic leans on the counter, a few feet to my left, looking directly at me. I clear my throat, attempting to mask the violent turmoil in my stomach. "Her ribs were showing, her mid-section was torn up. Lacerated." Like my insides right now... Metaphorically, of course.

My heart is pounding desperately, frantically. I hope I do not appear as panicked as I am uncontrollably feeling. Visions of blood, bruises, scratches, injuries and terrifying screams are steadily filling my mind, like poisonous wine in a glass of water... I urgently need to regulate my habit of researching and consulting various sources on the topic of agender individuals and their struggles. If I keep informing myself like this on all the aspects of assault, sexual or not, I will drive myself to insanity. Becoming a paranoid freak is not my goal, luckily I am far from getting there yet.

Last month, a new tenant moved into my apartment building, on the second floor. I was coming back from a late shift, around 11 o'clock at night. The man was unloading boxes from the trunk of his car and a ball fell out. It must have been a dog toy of some sort, I saw him walking a small poodle with brown fur during the following week, and it rolled at my feet. When I picked it up and tried to hand it to him, though, he began sobbing and seemed absolutely terrorized by my actions. I did not want the situation to worsen, so I dropped the ball to the ground and left hastily. Joanne's niece, I know her only because she sometimes spends multiple days in a row at her aunt's apartment, was watching us from one of the balconies. She called the cops shortly after I entered my home, I heard the sirens... I am not intending to turn into that guy.

"I did not see anyone on the scene that fits that description, Tanza. Sorry." His greenish brown irises are anchored to me, studying me... "Are you okay? If you are in shock, you should sit down."

Scott raises his right arm, and I pull away before he can touch me, in the event that that was his intention. "I am, don't worry. Thanks. I should get back to work."

On this note, I dress up, pick up my bag and leave, not without saying goodbye. I will not offer anyone the opportunity to unveil my fears.

~

I distractedly listen to the unending ringing of the ambulance, wrapping my fingers firmly around a handhold, which is attached to the ceiling of the vehicle. I emerge from my thoughts, brought out of my pondering by a voice.

"This is Leah Halevi speaking. I confirm we are a few blocks away from our victim, on Sixth. Out."

I disregard our vulpine boss' reply and glance at my watch: 7h51 PM. Leah is driving the ambulance, so I should be in charge of the patient when we get over there. Obviously, she is going to help me, but I will be able to get out of our vehicle faster and start assessing the situation. We received a call from a young man whose friend was shot, in an area of town commonly nicknamed "Sixes", plainly because it wraps around the Sixth Boulevard. It also refers to a nearby strip club, "The Devil's Touch", which has a huge neon sign displaying the number "666" above the door. The caller did not give many details, so Leah and I will discover the extent of the damage once we are on the scene. Most likely, we will also find out what happened. Their story, from what Dorothy told us, is that it was a mugging gone wrong, which is honestly - and sadly - not too abnormal around these parts.

I step out as soon as Leah hits the brakes. We get numerous calls coming from Sixes, so I even recognize the houses around us. Saying it is a bad neighborhood would be an understatement, however that goes for pretty much all of Gotham City. The people who live around here are often down on their luck and getting themselves involved into dangerous situations - 'wrong place, wrong time' kind of scenarios - rather than hardened criminal masterminds.