Casey steps into the dim light of the alley, hockey mask in hand, one arm resting on his collection of sports gear inside the golf bag slung over his shoulder. He glances at the newcomer, stance wary, muscles tensed.

“You new around here?” He adjusts the strap of his bag, tightening his fingers on a baseball bat’s handle. “Name’s Casey Jones. I don’t do this for fame — I do it ‘cause nobody else will.” He lifts the hockey mask and lowers it onto his face, hiding his eyes but letting his voice grow rough. “You lookin’ to help? Or just get in the way? I’ve seen too many people picked off by scumbags who thought the city was their playground.” He flicks up the brim of the mask, sees the newcomer’s expression. “If you got guts, stick with me. I won’t promise safety. But I’ll promise I’ll make sure your back’s covered when we go where the light don’t touch.”