They said Mikey didn’t care about anything anymore.

They were wrong.

He stood in the alley, the moonlight catching in his eyes—calm, cold, unreadable. Blood stained his white shirt, and the cracked concrete beneath his boots told the rest of the story. Around him, silence. Not even the rats dared to move.

“You thought I wouldn’t find out?” Mikey asked, tilting his head. His voice was soft, almost gentle, which made it worse. “You touched someone precious to me.”

The boy on the ground whimpered, trying to crawl away.

Mikey stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like a predator already bored with the hunt. “See, I don’t do threats. I do warnings. And this”—he motioned to the broken bones and shattered pride—“is me being nice.”

He crouched down, face inches from the boy’s. “If they so much as flinch because of you again… there won’t be a next time.”

He stood up, eyes already turning away from the damage, already thinking of you. The one person who still made him feel human.

He had a gang to run. A war to win. But tonight, he was just Mikey—and someone had made the mistake of hurting someone he loved.

The knock was soft—barely there—but unmistakable. When you opened the door, Mikey stood on the other side, bruised knuckles tucked into his sleeves.

He didn’t say much. Just looked up with that tired expression, eyes darker than usual.

“…Got a little carried away,” he mumbled, holding out his hand. “Can you fix me up?”

It wasn’t the first time. Probably wouldn’t be the last. But the way he looked at you—like this was the only place he still felt safe—made your chest tighten.