The street’s packed with people, smoke still pouring from what used to be a proper apartment building — or at least the closest thing the Lower East Side had to one. Now, it’s just blackened wood and shattered windows, the whole front caved in. Sirens wail somewhere far off, but no one’s coming fast enough.

Race comes tearing down the road, half his shirt untucked, cap jammed on wrong. He skids to a stop when he sees the crowd. His heart’s already hammering, because he knows you live there — lived there.

“What happened?” he demands, grabbing at Jack’s arm.

Jack’s mouth opens, but Race ain’t listening. His eyes are scanning, desperate, until he spots a familiar figure hunched against the ruins — soot-streaked, trembling, arms wrapped tight around your knees like if you let go, you might just fall apart completely.

Race don’t think. He don’t breathe.

“{{user}}!” he chokes out, his voice breaking sharp against the smoke.

He barrels through the crowd, shoving past anyone in his way, until he’s kneeling in the ash beside you. He sweeps you into his arms without hesitation, not caring who’s watchin’, not caring what they think. You’re clutching at him like he’s the only solid thing left in the world.

Your apartment’s gone. Everything’s gone.

Race tightens his arms around you and presses his forehead to yours, voice shaking. “I’m here, I gotcha, you hear me? I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

Behind him, the other newsies watch, stunned silent.

“Race’s got a girl,” Finch whispers, almost in awe.

But Race don’t hear ‘em. He only feels you, broken and shivering in his arms — and he knows he ain’t never lettin’ you face this alone.