Winged, he was glad for the rain; it meant it washed away the blood from his wound, kept it from forming a genuine trail outside. had to be good for something. He would park his motorcycle out of the way, out of the rain, and make his way back to his apartment. Much like Al, far, far away, his first stop would be the bathroom. He's not there to puke, though, or even try to.<br/><br/>He would strip out of his soaked clothes and shoes first, though, and make sure that his door was locked and deadbolted. Same with the windows; they were shut and locked.<br/><br/>In the bathroom, he got out a medkit, and went to work on his winged arm, cleaning away the blood with alcohol. The burning sensation didn't bother him in the least.  He checks it out in the mirror; it was bad, as any injury was. But he'd be fine. He could tell.<br/><br/>His next stop would be to shower. He always felt a little grungy after going to the bar, but tonight he felt outright dirty.  Scouring himself with soap and hot water handled that, though.<br/><br/><div align="center">...One Hour Later...</div>Okay, he feels like a boiled potato now. The water turns off, his body is dried off, and he checks the wound in the mirror again (after cleaning it of steam). He gets out some bandages and medical tape, and patches himself up.  Then it was back into his living room.<br/><br/>His apartment was a pretty spartan affair. Everything nice and neat, positioned just how he liked it, and lacking in any sort of superfluous details. In the living room was a desk, and their was a chair there. While the desk is currently home to a charging laptop, it's not that that he's interested in. Instead, it's one of the drawers, which had a false bottom in it. It was into this place that he went, taking out a well-worn but cared for, red leather journal.<br/><br/>Setting it on the desk, he'd open up another drawer and get out a pen. He would start writing in the book, about his strange experiences tonight. It helped him to focus; would give him something to check back later, too.<br/><br/>Their were some in his line of work that would never think to keep written  records; too risky, for one reason or another. But he's found a way around that. Even if someone did find the secret location of his journal, his entire method of writing paints every journal entry as a chapter in some sort of fictitious tale he's working on, done from a first person narrative.<br/><br/>While he busied himself with writing, he thought about other things. Otis, for instance. He'd been there. Otis was a good man, Leof's worked with him a handful of times over the years, though they don't keep in steady contact. Still, tomorrow... well, after some shut-eye, he had a plan for tomorrow. He'd call his boss, his friend, and explain that he had gotten injured; nothing too serious, but he needed the week off.<br/><br/>He knew his Filipino friend. The guy could be a hard ass when training people, but he had a heart of gold. Especially since the man knew that Leof always went to that bar, and it'd surely be on the news. Once he had that time off secured, he'd swing by Otis' place and see what he has to say about last night, and see what his plans are. Might be another one of those times where they end up working together.