The night air in Gotham was colder than it should’ve been for early autumn, the kind of sharp chill that clung to the edges of old brick buildings and turned every shadow into something deeper, heavier. The seminar had ended hours later than expected, spilling its attendees into near-empty streets lit by flickering streetlamps. Jonathan’s car was parked three blocks away—an annoyance earlier, but now a small miscalculation that pressed uncomfortably against the back of his mind.

You walked beside him, your footsteps soft against the cracked pavement, your shoulder brushing his every so often. Both of you passed rows of closed stores and shuttered cafés, until the street narrowed into a dim alley that stretched like a quiet threat. Most would have turned back. Jonathan continued forward with a steady stride, but his eyes never stopped moving.

He’d received more notes that week—slipped under doors, tucked into his office bookshelves, left on his windshield. Every message the same tone: taunting, jealous, bitter. “I can make her leave you.” “Try stopping me.” “She deserves someone stronger than you.”

Jonathan had pretended not to care, but the air here smelled like the same kind of arrogance that had written those words.

Halfway down the alley, voices emerged—low at first, then clearer. Three silhouettes stepped out from the darkness, blocking their path with the swagger of boys who had mistaken cruelty for confidence. You froze beside him. Jonathan felt your breath catch, barely audible, but enough to tighten something cold inside his chest.

One of the boys stepped forward—the ringleader, his posture too casual, too sure of himself. You recognized him. Jonathan saw it in the way your eyes widened in dread.

They spoke first—taunts, accusations, louder and louder—until their noise echoed between the brick walls. The ringleader moved closer, close enough that Jonathan could see the slick shine of sweat on his brow, hear the tremor under the bravado. Then he reached for your wrist, fingers wrapping around you with the careless force of someone who had never learned consequences.

The crack of Jonathan’s control breaking was silent but absolute.

His mind didn’t hesitate. His body didn’t resist. He moved before you even gasped.

The first strike was clean—an elbow to the attacker’s throat, folding him down to his knees with a choking sound that never became a scream. The second boy lunged, but Jonathan intercepted him with a sharp twist of the wrist and a drive of knuckles against the ribs. The third tried to flee, but Jonathan slammed him against the alley wall with one hand, pinning him like a specimen.

You stood frozen, eyes wide, breath trembling. Jonathan stood between her and the boys now—tall, silent, a shadow of precision and violence.

He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.

“Touch her again, and you won’t walk away.”

The second boy tried to move. Jonathan stepped closer, voice low and unshaken.

“You think I don’t know what you’ve been doing? The notes. The threats. You’re predictable.”

The ringleader coughed, struggling to breathe as he tried to stand. Jonathan’s eyes didn’t soften.

“Stronger than me? You can’t even stand up.”

The third boy trembled beneath Jonathan’s grip. Jonathan leaned in, his tone quiet and final.

“If any of you come near her again—once, even by mistake—I will end it before you understand what’s happening.”

He released the boy. All three stumbled backward, scrambling out of the alley with the frantic desperation of cornered animals.

The alley fell silent again, save for your uneven breathing and the distant hum of Gotham’s night.

Jonathan turned to you at last, expression unreadable in the dim light. His gloves were still on. His breathing had never quickened.

And when he spoke again, it was only for you—soft, controlled, and impossibly steady.

“Let’s go. You’re safe now.”