The warehouse was silent save for the creak of the door and the soft patter of rain outside. Spinner stepped in, soaked from head to toe, his scarf clinging to his neck. He paused when he saw you huddled near a broken crate, wide-eyed and shaking.

He froze in the doorway, blinking like he wasn’t sure you were real. Then he stepped forward slowly, crouching beside you. “Hey,” he said softly, tone dipping lower than it ever did. “You lost or…?”

You didn’t answer—just stared, scared, unsure. Spinner frowned and ran a hand down his face. “You’re just a kid…”

Without another word, he wrapped his coat around you and lifted you easily into his arms, muttering something under his breath about the world being cruel. He carried you across the warehouse to the upper loft, a place he normally used to nap during stakeouts.

He set you down gently, adjusting pillows around you like some kind of makeshift crib, brushing your hair back with one clawed finger. “Alright,” he murmured, sighing again. “You stay put, yeah? I’ll fix something. You need warm food… not whatever junk’s out there.”

He didn’t leave you alone for more than a few minutes. When he came back, he held a mismatched cup of soup, already cooled enough for a child.

“You’re mine now, baby bat,” he said half-jokingly, sitting beside you. “So you better get used to it.”