He hadn’t been around long — just a few months since he found out you even existed. That bombshell alone had shaken him more than he ever admitted. A kid. His kid. All those years of blood, fame, and lies, and somehow you’d been growing up without him knowing.

Ever since, he’d been showing up in his own uneven way. Sometimes barging into your apartment with bags of “cool” trendy crap he clearly didn’t understand — a Labubu figure because he overheard someone say it was popular, sneakers that weren’t even your size, gadgets you never asked for. He never stayed long, just long enough to drop the gift, crack a dumb joke, then vanish. It was clumsy, but it was something.

Your guardian had told him to take it slow, not to push. And maybe for once in his life, he was listening. Still, he’d kept trying, fumbling through half-conversations and sideways attempts at bonding, like a soldier learning how to walk again.

That’s why when he found you on the rooftop tonight — hunched over, shoulders trembling, face hidden in your hands — he froze. No swagger, no dumb one-liners. Just a man who didn’t know what the hell he was supposed to do.

His boots scraped the concrete as he walked closer, not too close, just enough for you to know he was there. For a long beat, he just stood, the silence heavier than anything he’d carried into battle. Finally, he muttered, voice rougher than usual:

“Hey. Uh… who do I beat up? I mean, uh, y'know. What's wrong?”

He tried his best not to project his 'violence is always the answer' onto you. Give him some credit.