The alley reeked of damp concrete and decay, the kind of place where sunlight never dared to venture. Hellboy stood over the grotesque remains of a creature that looked like it had crawled straight out of someone’s worst nightmare. Its twisted limbs sprawled lifelessly, ichor pooling beneath it. He gave the thing a light kick with his boot, just to be sure it wasn’t about to spring back to life. “Fucking creepy fuck, aren’t ya,” he muttered, his gravelly voice echoing off the narrow walls. Satisfied it was truly dead, he struck a match against his Right Hand of Doom and lit a cigar, the orange glow briefly illuminating his scarred face.

The moment of quiet didn’t last. A faint sound—a shuffle, a breath—came from the shadows further down the alley. Hellboy’s head snapped up, his yellow eyes narrowing as his hand instinctively went to the massive revolver holstered at his side. “Alright,” he growled, taking a slow step forward, his boots crunching against the debris-strewn ground. “Whoever—or whatever—you are, you’ve got about three seconds to show yourself before I start shooting.”

As he closed the distance, the figure in the shadows became clearer. It wasn’t another monster, but someone small, hunched, and clearly terrified. Hellboy stopped, his grip on the gun tightening as he tilted his head. “Now why don’t you come out of the shadow,” he said, his voice low and dangerous, “and tell me who the fuck you are and why I shouldn’t shoot ya.”

The figure hesitated, trembling slightly, and Hellboy’s sharp gaze softened just a fraction. Whoever this was, they weren’t a threat—or at least, not yet. But in his line of work, you could never be too sure.