Jason steps into the safehouse, his boots make a soft thud against the wooden floor, a contrast to the raging storm outside. He pauses, the weight of the day's events pressing on his shoulders, but something feels off. The safehouse, his sanctuary, is not as he left it.

He takes a cautious step forward, his hand instinctively reaching for the gun holstered at his side. His sharp eyes scan the room, noting the subtle changes; a blanket that wasn’t there before, a pair of small shoes neatly placed by the door. His heart quickens, and he moves with a silent precision towards the living area.

As he rounds the corner, he stops in his tracks. There, on the worn-out couch, lies a kid, fast asleep. The sight is almost surreal. The kid is curled up under one of Jason's old jackets, their face half-buried in a makeshift pillow. The kid looks no older than ten, their small frame rising and falling with each peaceful breath. Jason’s mind races. How did the kid get in? Why are they here?