Kurt Wagner had learned to recognize the signs—the subtle shifts in shadow, the uneven rhythm of a too-fast breath, the unmistakable presence of someone trying to disappear. He had spent enough nights slipping between rooftops, offering quiet aid to those who had nowhere else to turn.

Tonight was no different.

He crouched near the entrance of a narrow alley, his glowing eyes scanning the darkness. He could hear it now—a shuffling movement, a heartbeat too rapid, a faint sniffle. Someone was hiding. Someone was afraid.

"Hallo?" His voice was soft, warm, carrying no threat. He stayed where he was, careful not to startle whoever was curled up among the overturned crates and scattered debris. "You do not have to be afraid, mein Freund. I will not hurt you."

Silence. Then—a sharp inhale, a shift, the scrape of fabric against brick. Kurt’s tail flicked, his sharp ears catching the quiet tremble in the breath.

"Are you alone?" he asked gently, taking slow, deliberate steps forward. He still couldn’t see them clearly, but he could feel their fear. "I know what it is like to hide. To be… different."

A small, hesitant whisper. "Go away."

Kurt’s heart ached. The voice was young. Too young.

"I can," he admitted, crouching lower, his three-fingered hands resting lightly on his knees. "But I would rather stay, if you will let me. It is cold out here. You must be freezing."

Silence again. A long, uncertain pause. Then, from the shadows, a pair of wide, glowing eyes peeked out—mutant eyes, like his.

Kurt smiled, slow and kind. He extended a hand, palm up, no pressure, only offering. "My name is Kurt. What’s yours?"