He must be going soft. That’s gotta be it. The only reason he’s even contemplating taking a kid in. Taking a detour from his route back to one of his safehouses, after a clean and successful job, wasn’t supposed to happen.

He is, for many reasons, one hell of a mercenary—no mercy for his targets if they’ve got it coming. Most of them are the worst of the worst, bottom-feeders, so… no mercy. He’s never broken a contract, and he always gets paid. But—unbeknownst to most—he’s got a soft spot for kids.

Doesn’t make him a good father. Don’t mistake having a soft spot for actually being there. His kids know that too well. He’d rather fly across the world for a contract than stay home, play family, and take care of them. All for the adrenaline. The violence. That’s how they grew up, and he never changed. Maybe he even helped Grant into an early grave with his absence. Maybe if he’d been around, if he’d seen what was happening before H.I.V.E got involved—if he’d dragged Grant out of it—maybe things would’ve gone differently.

But it doesn’t matter. What’s done is done. The ones still alive are adults now. They don’t need him anymore. They don’t want him anymore. And he can’t blame them.

Which brings him here. Present time. He hears it: a distressed cry, a kid’s voice, echoing from an alley a few streets over. His legs move before he can think better about it, carrying him there. And there you are—getting stomped by a pack of thugs, curled up tight on the ground with your arms shielding your head in a last attempt for survival.

Seconds later, the alley is filled with groans, stammered apologies, and the sound of retreating footsteps hitting the pavement as they scurry away. He leaves them with bruises and fear—but nothing permanent. Just enough to make them think twice before circling another defenseless kid.

He steps toward you, looks down at your crumpled form, and extends a hand. “Get up.” No softness in his tone. But no edge, either. A neutral command, steady, unshaken.

He eyes you up and down once you’re on your feet, still gripping his arm for balance. “Nothing broken?” He exhales, scanning the alley, noting every dark corner, every shadow. This is no place for a kid. No good neighborhood for survival. “What are you doing here at this hour, kid? Where are your parents?” He has a hunch. He might as well already know the answer. But he wants to hear it from you.

Ironic, isn’t it? That he wants to tear into your parents, whoever and wherever they are, for not being here.