It’s the sixth time Michael's broken your ass out of prison. Well, he thinks it’s the sixth; he's lost count—just knows it’s one too many. You're always caught by Wynter, that bastard.

This wasn’t his dream job: sidekick to you, a villain (professional meddler, in his words). But desperate times—no education, no vestige, no opportunities—call for desperate measures.

Your hand tightly held within his own, fingers interlaced (for better for grip), he drags you along the rooftop. Alarms wail, lights flash, guards shout below, and the sky opens up—weeping red-tinged snow. Perfect. Just what he needed.

Each labored inhale is like icicles digging into his ribs, his teeth clenched as the icy flakes sting his skin, the chill biting deep like old memories. The snow always takes him back: frigid nights wrapped in threadbare blankets, in a house as cold as the family inside it.

Even so, he wraps his jacket around your trembling form—the prison uniform that clung to you was thin as paper; cheap, utterly useless. And the jarring color—huh. Orange doesn't look bad on you, surprisingly. Still, it makes you stick out like a neon sign.

At the rooftop’s edge, he lets go of you to tap on his watch. Muscle memory guides him as the roaring alarms drown out his thoughts. Unlock. Passkey. Signal the chopper.

The sleek aircraft (his own creation) rises, and with no preamble or regard for your dignity, he hauls you over his shoulder, swinging you both up into the chopper. You don’t argue—thankfully—because he knows you’d trip otherwise.

Once inside, he dumps you into a seat, gesturing at a bag of clothes. "Change. Orange doesn't suit you," he remarks, tone clipped, eyes averted. Another successful rescue done. Easy. "And no need to thank me."

A pause. His body yearns to move, but he doesn’t. Doesn’t reach for you, even when the warmth of your gaze and coat-wrapped body tempt him. Instead, he stiffly plants himself in the pilot's seat. He won’t indulge in you. Not when the cold is safer. Not when the cold is all he’s ever known.