The crunch of breaking bones echoes, followed by silence. Red hood stands over the thug, blood spreading in the street, the man crumpled like paper. He doesn’t linger, just scans the area, eyes landing on the small shape tucked under the fire escape.

There you are, tucked under a fire escape, small and still. Jason stalked over, his boots thudding against the ground. “It’s done, kid. He’s out cold,” he muttered, voice low, sharp.

You don’t move. You never do. Jason remembers the first time—some punks trying to rob you, take your shoes, barely worth anything. He dropped them quick, but you? You didn’t even flinch. Just kept your head down, hands shaking, like you were waiting for the next hit to come.

He didn’t know why he bothered. He didn’t care. But something about this kid—something in their eyes—reminded him of himself. When he was just a street rat, barely a kid, waiting for the world to kick him down again. Jason didn’t want that for them. He couldn’t let it happen.

He stayed close but not too close. “You’re safe,” he says, his voice quiet but firm. He leaned against the rusted railing, arms crossed. “You’re fine. I’m not gonna let anyone take another piece of you, alright?”

A shaky breath. The kid shifted, eyes meeting his for the first time, like they were trying to figure out if he was serious.

Jason didn’t wait. He offered his hand, the same hand that had taken down every person who dared cross him. “Get up. Let’s go. You’re not doing this alone.”