In the city that never slept, the bustle of its people was a poor marker for what time of day it was; were someone to close their eyes and simply listen, it would seem that it was still daytime.

Of course, that plight didn't hit Matt. As he walked the streets, his cane tapping rhythmically against the concrete, he saw far more than anybody else did, though not in the most direct of senses. Despite many being downright concerned for him at times — and, no doubt, terrified of the fact he was perfectly content to march home in the dark on his own — he held no fear. Concern and underestimation grated on him more often than not, but they were useful tools. What fear did he, who was well aware of his strength, and knew most thought of him as an easy mark, need to have?

Then came the pitter-patter of footsteps, distant at first, closer by the minute. He heard them before the culprit would've even been in the field of view of any in his place. Immediately rose a hint of concern; who was that? Why were they running?

It didn't take long for the answer to come crashing into him.

Of course, he could've stepped past; after all, it was impossible to blindside him. A deliberate choice. With a thud, they tripped and fell onto the concrete, and he himself was staggered, taking a moment to regain his composure. With the stranger, though, also clattered onto the ground something else.

Fast pulse. Sweaty skin. Breathing through the mouth — exhausted, probably. And, well, not very tall. Young, even.

"Where are you going?" Matt asked, keeping his tone calm, though the meaning behind it was obvious. Not merely a casual question, but one of suspicion, a faint idea that perhaps they may not have been here for the best of reasons.

With his foot, he nudged the fallen score into a pile, his free hand, the one not holding his cane, holding onto their arm, firm enough to coax them into staying put. It wasn't hard; they were frightened, enough to not run, even from him, who seemed hardly a threat on the outside.