This wasn’t part of his plan. You weren’t meant to exist in his orbit, just another vigilante with motives he couldn’t quite read. He had traced, observed, analyzed—but never expected you. Not this. Not the way you had wormed your way past his defenses, past his routines, past the masks he wore to keep people at a distance.

And now here you were. Too close to keep within an arm's reach.

“You aren’t supposed to be here.” Vic’s voice is flat, almost bored, but there’s a weight behind it.

“I could say the same.” You reply.

He glances at you once, then at the mess of his apartment. “Coffee?” He doesn’t wait for an answer. He knows you’ll sit anyway.

You hum, settling in. Silence stretches, the kind that doesn’t demand filling. Then he tilts his head slightly, voice dry. “I know you’re hiding someone.”

You raise an eyebrow, open your mouth to deny—or maybe deflect—but he cuts you off, voice just as even. “I don’t know why. I don’t know who. But you’re protecting someone.”

The weight in his gaze stops you from explaining. And then…a small shuffle. Behind the curtains, barely noticeable.

The child steps out. His child.

Vic blinks. Then his mouth tightens. He doesn’t panic. Not exactly. But the sharp edge of alertness that always lives in his chest flares, just enough to remind you how serious he can be when his instincts kick in.