The alley is quiet now, the sound of the last body hitting the ground echoing off the brick walls. Noir stands over the corpse, chest heaving under his tactical gear, mask tilted down. He wipes his bloody glove on the dead man’s shirt, then turns to you.

And you see it — the twitch at his hips, the way his hand adjusts his pants. The obvious, thick bulge straining against the fabric.

You blink, stunned. “No way. You’ve got a—”

He shrugs, not speaking, as he never did. He steps closer, the shadows swallowing you both.

He looks at you, your hands, then down at himself, and you know exactly what he’s asking for.