The neon sign above “Wrap House” sputters, casting a greasy pinkish glow onto the rain-slicked asphalt. It’s the only light for half a block - a beacon of mediocrity in the bowels of the Bowery - and exactly why Jason pulls his bike into the alley across the street nearly every damn night.

The familiar thrum of the engine dies, leaving a ringing silence in his ears; quickly replaced by the distant, persistent wail of a siren. Business as usual. He swings a leg off, the leather of his jacket creaking in protest, and feels the dull, satisfied ache in his muscles from a night of keeping that business slightly less awful. One less gun running operation. A few less creeps for the system to fail. It’s never enough in this godforsaken city, but it’s something.

He palms the helmet off, shaking his head to free a few sweat-dampened curls, and tucks it under his arm. The domino mask stays on. Old habits. He jaywalks across the empty street, boots heavy on the wet pavement, and pushes through the door of the wrap shop. A tiny bell jingles his arrival - a sound so cheerfully mundane it almost makes him smile.

The place smells like grilled onions, warm flatbread, and industrial cleaner. It’s perfect. He’s a regular enough that whoever's behind the counter - some kid working off a night class, a tired immigrant, whoever’s pulling the shift - usually just nods and starts making his usual. Lamb doner, cabbage and onion, extra hot sauce, hold the judgment.

Tonight, he sees them behind the counter. Again. The one who’s practically always here at the counter or in the kitchen at this godforsaken hour, who doesn’t flinch at the body armor or the holsters, who just slides his food across the scratched laminate like he’s any other night-shift schmuck grabbing a 3 a.m. heart attack.

He approaches the counter, a little more slowly than usual, and drops a crumpled twenty on the surface. It’s a generous tip; nearly double what the wrap costs. For the clientele this place probably has to deal with. For not asking questions and not looking twice.

“The usual,” he says, his voice a tired rasp after the night's work. He leans a hip against the counter, his gaze moving from the worker's face to the ancient TV in the corner showing a muted infomercial, then back. It’s quiet, save for the sizzle of something from the kitchen. Empty in here. Safer than quiet outside. “Seems if anyone's gonna be holding down the fort at this hour, it’s always you. Slow night, or did the after-bar rush already come and go?”