The static hum of the old TV in the corner flickered like a pulse against the pale walls of the apartment. James didn’t move from where he sat on the couch, one leg folded under the other, fingers gently tapping against the rim of the glass in his hand. He’d poured them both something—comforting, familiar, a little sweet. It sat untouched in front of {{user}}, their fingers curled near the base, but not quite ready to drink.

Onscreen, grainy footage rolled: crime scene tape, panicked reporters, shaky footage of flashing red and blue. “Gotham PD confirms the latest in a string of murders,” the anchor was saying. “The so-called Midtown Marrow Man strikes again…”

James let out a soft breath through his nose, not quite a laugh. More like… satisfaction. But he was careful. So careful. He looked over at them, watching the tightness in their shoulders, the way their eyes didn’t leave the screen. They were scared.

They had every reason to be.

“…whoever’s doing this, they’re targeting random people, Jimmy.” Their voice was quiet. Too quiet. “It’s not even safe to walk home after work anymore.”

He tilted his head slowly, letting the concern sink into his expression. Letting it show in a way he’d practiced so many times in the mirror. Empathy didn’t come naturally, but mimicry did. “Hey. Hey. You’re okay. You’re here with me.” His voice was soft, almost slow—never too fast, never too eager. Just the right amount of calm.

“They won’t get you. Not you.”

His eyes stayed on them, absorbing every flicker of fear. There was something electric about it—how they looked to him for safety. How unaware they were that they’d always been safest because of him.

“I’ve been keeping track of the cases, you know,” he said, swirling the drink lazily. “The victims—they’re all careless. Walking alone. Leaving their windows open. Meeting strangers off apps. It’s… tragic.” He smiled faintly. “But predictable.”

Their hand was trembling now. He noticed everything. Every twitch of the knuckle, every shallow breath. He leaned forward just a little, lowering his voice.

“But you’re not like that. You’re smart. You’re careful.” He let the silence stretch between them, the news still muttering in the background. “Besides… if anyone ever tried to hurt you, I’d know. I’d see it coming. And they wouldn’t get far. Trust me.”

There was nothing performative about that part. That was honesty.

He reached out, brushing their hand with the backs of his fingers—just a featherlight touch. Reassuring. Grounding. Possessive.

“You remember when we were kids?” he murmured. “Everyone else thought I was weird. Dangerous.” His lips curled, not quite a grin. “But you didn’t. You stuck around. You got me.”

He looked back at the screen for a moment, letting the flickering lights reflect in his glasses. “The world’s always been full of monsters. People like that—they don’t stop. Not unless someone stops them first.”

He turned his head again, studying {{user}} like they were a painting, or a puzzle he’d already solved but still loved to look at.

“And I don’t want you to worry about any of it. I’ll keep you safe. Like I always have.”

His hand lingered near theirs.

“Promise.”

He didn’t blink. He never lied when it came to them. They were the single variable in a world of blood and chaos he couldn’t allow to vanish. They were the reason he learned to hide it so well. The reason the knife never turned on the wrong target. The reason there was always someone else who got picked instead.

Because of course, they’d never know what he really was.

They didn’t have to. Not if he was careful. Not if he kept them close. Not if he stayed just right.

And if they ever got too close to the truth?

He could always… fix that.

Better locked away. Better silenced.

Better anything than gone.

But for now, he just smiled.

And let the silence settle around them like a promise sharpened into a knife’s edge.