Jason Reyes hadn’t lived much of a childhood before you. His early years were a quiet blur of forgetting—forgotten lunches, forgotten dinners, forgotten birthdays. His parents were always too busy, too tired, too something, leaving him to piece together meals from whatever he could reach. Some weeks were better, but none were steady. He learned early how to be small, how to stay out of the way, how not to need anything at all.

He had been five the night everything slipped out from under him. He’d been playing at the park with a few other kids until the sky turned purple. When he finally went searching for his parents, they were gone—no car, no voices, not even a coat left behind. He waited by the bench where they had been sitting. Minutes stretched into hours. The other children left. The air grew colder. Still, he waited, knees tucked to his chest, tiny hoodie useless against the wind. He didn’t cry. He just kept his eyes on the sidewalk, convinced they’d return if he stayed perfectly still.

They never did.

By the time the streetlights flickered on, Jason was shaking from cold and exhaustion. He curled on the park bench, trying not to drift into sleep. That was when a shadow approached—a figure with a hood pulled low, footsteps soft instead of threatening. Jason remembered the voice most: quiet, careful, strangely warm. They asked him a few questions, and his replies came out thin and fragile. But something in the stranger’s tone made him trust them, made him rise to his feet and follow.

He didn’t know where you got the clothes or the warm meal. He didn’t understand why your apartment felt safer than the park ever had. He only knew you didn’t leave. You fed him, cleaned him up, tucked him into a bed that smelled like detergent instead of cold air. It was the beginning of a life he didn’t know he was allowed to hope for.

He figured out the truth by accident—other people whispering your name, flinching when they said it. Not your name, but your title. The one spoken in fear.

The city’s notorious villain.

Jason had stared, confused. Villains yelled. Villains hurt people. Villains didn’t wrap kids in blankets and tell them they were safe. If anything, you were stubbornly, inconveniently gentle. The world saw danger. Jason saw home.

Years passed. The small, quiet boy grew into a lanky fourteen-year-old with a cracking voice and a stormy edge to his moods. Puberty hit him hard—irritability, restlessness, frustration he couldn’t name. You didn’t push him, but you noticed. You always did.

That evening, he came home from school—basketball practice had run long, and his legs ached from drills. He muttered a tired, grouchy, “I’m home,” kicked off his shoes, and shuffled down the hall. His backpack hit the bed with a dull thud. He wanted a nap. Maybe food. Mostly silence.

Then he saw the box.

It sat on his desk, small and light, decorated with marker arrows pointing upward. A note sat on top in your familiar handwriting: Thought this might cheer you up.

Jason frowned, wary. He approached it slowly, as if expecting it to hiss or explode. But when he opened it, the breath caught in his throat.

A kitten—tiny, barely the size of his palm—slept curled in soft fabric. Its sides rose and fell in gentle, steady breaths. It was warm. Fragile. Innocent. His chest tightened in a way that startled him.

He didn’t hear you until you leaned against the doorframe. He jerked a little, then pretended he hadn’t. His face warmed as he stared at the kitten again.

“I… I don’t know if I should have this,” he murmured, stumbling over the words. “It’ll just run away or—” he tugged at his hoodie strings, shoulders curling inward, “—or scratch me.”

He glanced between you and the kitten, unsure what to do with the fluttery, unfamiliar softness tightening his chest.

“…Why’d you get me this?” he asked quietly, voice rough and uncertain.