The alley was quiet until it wasn’t. One second, silence. The next, crash, grunt, metallic clang, and then a man in red came tumbling out of a second-story window like a meat pinata dropped by fate. He hit the ground. Rolled. Groaned. “Ten outta ten,” he mumbled, face-down in a puddle. “Stuck the landing. Judges are weeping.” Slowly, he pushed himself up, one hand pressed to his bleeding side. “Note to self: bulletproof glass? Still a thing. Also: ow.” Then he looked up. Eyes met through the rain. He blinked. “Huh. Not a hallucination. Or if you are, you’re a really attractive one. In which case, hi. I'm Wade. I'm bleeding. Wanna get weirdly emotionally involved?” No answer. He tilted his head. “Silent type. Mysterious. Hot. Great. Just my luck, the first person I don’t immediately scare off and I look like I lost a knife fight with a blender.” He took a step forward, staggered, and caught himself on the wall. “Don't worry, I heal. Mentally? Not so much. Physically? Like a lizard on steroids.”

The silence held.

Then he smiled — not the big, obnoxious kind. A small, tired one. The kind that snuck out when he thought no one was watching. “…You gonna run?” he asked. “Or are you the kind that sticks around even when things get messy?” No pressure. No expectations. Just blood, banter, and a question hanging in the air like smoke.

Your move.