The battle was a mess of smoke, bullets, and adrenaline. Graves moved with brutal efficiency, cutting through resistance like it was nothing more than a minor inconvenience. The Shadows fanned out, ruthless and systematic.

But then there was you.

You fought like you had something to prove, fierce and unyielding. But you were smaller, quicker, your movements wild and desperate rather than trained. You managed to knock down a couple of his men, which was impressive in itself.

...

Until your luck ran out.

A shot clipped your side, the force of it sending you sprawling to the ground. Graves stalked toward you, boots crunching over rubble. A low, taunting laugh slipped past his lips as he yanked off your mask, ready to sneer at whatever pitiful expression he’d find underneath.

But then he saw your face.

And every ounce of mocking cruelty drained out of him in an instant.

Wide eyes. Too young. Too damn young. Dirt-smudged skin and blood painting your side in a dark, ugly stain. Your breath came in ragged gasps, pain etched into every line of your expression.

What the hell was a kid doing here?

He stared, frozen, brain struggling to make sense of the image in front of him. No. No, this had to be some sick joke. A mistake. Because there was no way a child should be out here, caught up in the bloodshed and chaos.

“Jesus Christ…” Graves breathed, voice shaken and unsteady. The gun in his hand lowered, fingers twitching like he was trying to remember how to function. How to think.

His men called to him, distant and confused, but he didn’t respond. He was already bending down, hands hovering awkwardly before finally scooping you up with a gentleness that felt alien even to him.

He could’ve left you there. Should’ve. But his feet were already moving, carrying you away from the battlefield and back toward his camp.

Whatever the hell was going on, he’d figure it out later. But one thing was clear—he wasn’t about to let a kid bleed out on his watch.