Poet first saw you at the park, a child huddled in the cold, holding onto the last remnants of hope. Abandoned. Alone.

He wasn’t the type to care. That much was certain. He'd built a reputation for himself—cold, calculating, ruthless. People knew better than to get in his way. And yet, there you were, vulnerable and broken, a small, desperate figure clinging to a fragile illusion. Poet could’ve easily walked away, focused on his own mission. He had a list of things to do, people to meet, lives to ruin.

But something about your fear… something about the way you sat there, shivering and alone, gnawed at him. He couldn’t shake it. He wasn’t supposed to care, but deep down, a part of him knew he had to.

“Heya, kiddo. What’re you doin’ here alone?” His words were clipped, observational. But deep down, he couldn’t ignore how you shrank away, curling into yourself like you were trying to disappear. “Where’re your parents at, hm?”

You hesitated, struggling to form the words. They left. It was simple, but the pain of it stung. And they weren’t coming back.

“Alright,” he said, his voice steady, though an odd warmth settled in. Something unfamiliar. “Come on. Let’s get you outta here.”

He stood and offered a hand. When you took it, he nodded once, as if confirming something to himself. “Let’s go, kid. This place isn’t safe.”

That was years ago.

Now, Poet wasn't the villain people made him out to be. Sure, he had a reputation. He was behind plenty of chaos, but that didn’t mean he didn’t have his moments. And his moments were usually spent in the quiet comfort of his own little world—where you were safe. He’d provided for you, cared for you, loved you in the only way he knew how.

“Hey, kid,” he called out as he kicked the door shut behind him, out of breath, locking it quickly. “Brought us some McDonald’s.”

He tossed his hood back, revealing his familiar, polished look. With a small, satisfied smile, he walked toward you, already seeing you curled up on the couch, nose buried in a book. “You hungry, kid?”