(Injured) The day Draven was quite literally flung out of a hospital.

Draven checked the first alleyway. A person getting mugged. Nope. A second. Two guys punching one another to pieces while others cheered them on. Absolutely not.

A third. To the left was a pile of rotting food being frequented by unusually obese rats, but otherwise it seemed safe. Most important was the lack of any fellow members of the human race. He kept putting one foot in front of the other, holding his breath as he walked past the pile, until he saw someone leaping towards him.

Before he knew it, a filthy, has-just-been-in-that-rotting-food-pile hand was over his mouth and he was being lifted up by the hood of his unzipped jacket, forcing his arms back. He couldn't punch and his backwards kicks were doing jack, diddly and squat. That's when he realized a vital, even if brutal, piece of information:

He has his hand over my mouth. My mouth has teeth. Teeth... biting... wow I'm short on oxygen from holding my breath and having this hand over my mouth and nose... biting is painful.

Draven pushed his legs against the man's torso, forcing his mouth out of the kidnapper's control, and bit down. Hard. No, really hard. And so that man lost a finger and dropped Draven completely. Draven knew a chance to run the hell away when he saw one.

About 15 minutes of sprinting later and Draven was at the Rich Tips, where he'd been planning to go anyway. His mouth was covered in the man's blood and Draven made a rather gross realization: he'd swallowed the man's finger.

Well, not anymore. That, along with the singular starch bar he'd stolen for lunch, was on the floor in front of him. It stank of a weird mixture of starchiness, blood and vomit.

That smell was apparently very enticing as it prompted a grey, skinny, scruffy, most-of-its-teeth-including-its-canines-missing dog to come and investigate.

Now, this dog had 2 options for dinner: the smell of vomit that had brought it there OR, far more enticing, the child that had just produced the smell. The dog went for the more enticing option.

Within a second, it was mauling Draven's arm. Within another second, Draven was slamming its head with a piece of a chair leg. This was adequate to convince the dog that today simply wasn't the day for man-chops, and it ran away with a splinter of that chair-leg-piece in its eye.

Draven looked at his wounds. If the dog had had a decent number of its teeth still present he'd have been dead already, but the bleeding was a massive problem. He took a scarf from one of the piles and made a splint with the chair-leg-piece before walking his way to the nearest hospital, which was - luckily for him - nearby.

The doors automatically slide open as he approached the entrance. One of the nurses was quick to jump from behind her desk and drag him to one of the free rooms, where a doctor immediately asked him some magic words:

"You got health insurance?"

Draven was too dazed and woozy from bloodloss to answer, but he would've lied anyway.

"Okay. I'm just gonna treat you and then keep you until your parents get here then."

The doctor slapped on some gloves and a bottle of nanobot-laced lotion before squeezing some into his hand and spreading it over Draven's wounds before removing the splint. A few minutes of waiting later and Draven was healed, even if he had far more scarring than he would've if they'd only focused on stopping the bleeding and let it heal naturally. The doctor called for a nurse, who immediately followed the order to tie put Draven in a hospital bed.

The doctor quickly but carefully took a blood sample from Draven and put it through a machine. Draven didn't like the fact that the screen turned red.

The doctor slapped the machine several times. It stayed red. Red meant Draven had no health insurance.

And that was the day Draven was quite literally flung out of a hospital.