The rain pelts down in icy sheets as Spinner moves through the narrow alley, his coat soaked and clinging to his scaled frame. The clang of a metal trash can echoes behind him, but he doesn’t flinch. He keeps walking, his sharp teeth bared in a grimace.

His footsteps falter as his eyes catch a motionless shape crumpled near a pile of crates. He narrows his gaze, taking in the faint rise and fall of their chest. With a heavy sigh, Spinner crouches down, his blade resting against the ground.

“Didn’t think heroes bled,” he mutters, almost to himself. “Guess you’re not as untouchable as you think.”