Dalton’s lungs burn.

The air cuts like shrapnel slicing down his throat.He runs, hearing the pursuing footsteps drawing closer.Then something loops the inside of his shirt collar and he’s yanked back, both feet leaving the ground as he’s violently introduced to a brick wall.The impact cues an explosion of stars behind his eyes.

Someone’s shouting in his face but it all sounds like gibberish.

Two men tower over him. They’re both heavier by at least sixty pounds, their figures outlined by glim streetlight spilling into the dead-end alley.

“Thought you could give us the slip, eh, clever dick?” Snipes one of the men, clearly struggling to catch his breath.

“Can’t blame a guy for tryin,’” Dalton mutters as he’s roughly hoisted to his feet.

“On your feet, you little weasel!” Barks the man. The stench of sardines clings to his breath.

Despite the disgust, a wavering smile stretches across Dalton’s face. Raising his hands in mock surrender, he hears himself say, "Y'know, I think this is all a huge mix-up, fellas." Sardine breath

just snorts derisively. “A mix-up? That’s a laugh.” He huffs, voice dropping to a snarl. “What’s the big idea, skulking around where you’re not welcome?”

Behind him, Sardine’s partner holds up an injured hand to display red puncture wounds lining the palm in a semi-circle.

“This better not get infected. The little spitfire really bit me. Look, Joe. Joe, look at this,” he insists, hand waving in a bid to draw his partner’s attention.

“Not now George,” mutters Joe before shaking Dalton.“Hey, you!Eyes up!How’d you get into the boss’s office? Talk, ya brat!”

Dalton feels a spiteful smirk on his face.

“Woah, there. Easy, fella. Get anymore handsy and you’ll have to buy me dinner first-“

The quip is barely out of his mouth when something strikes him across the face with enough force to knock him to the ground. The concrete swims and swirls beneath him as the earth tilts dangerously off center.

“Tch! Mouthy brat.”

A weary sigh.

“We’re wasting out time. The kid’s just a common thief.”

Dalton gingerly touches his brow. His fingertips come away crimson.

Something clicks open.

Now he’s on his knees somehow with the pointy end of a knife trained on his face.

Bitter fear twists his gut, blending with hot indignation and adrenaline; the cocktail of emotions making him feel shaky and sick.

“Tha-ha-ha-hat’s a knife! You have a knife. That’s really—woh—that looks pretty sharp,” he babbles, talking around the panic clawing up his throat. “So, um, wait a second fella, wait a second, wait! You-you wanna know how I broke in, right? Right?”

The blade tilts away far enough to give him a false sense of security.

“That’s more like it. Who gave you the key to the boss’s office? I want names.”

He should cooperate.

“I bet you do.”

He needs to cooperate.

“But what you really oughta know, is—“

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He’s gonna cooperate.

Dalton spits, a pinkish glob of blood and saliva landing on Joe’s lapel.

A for effort.

“Bite me, you sinfully ugly, avocado-headed, subhuman, scum-sucking son of a man who never loved you—and eats pig fertilizer for a living!”

There’s a stunned silence. George is the first to break it. “That’s disgusting.” He sounds genuinely mortified. “You kiss your mother with that mouth?”

“I kiss yours,” Dalton sneers.

“That’s it! You’ve had it!” Joe roars, a vein throbbing on his temple. The blade closes in. Now he’s done it. Never could keep his mouth shut when it made sense to. Couldn’t be bothered with common sense. What a disappointing waste of life.

“Not the face, not the face!” Dalton cries, eyes squeezing shut and hands raising to shield himself.

“Oi!!”

Everything stops.

When getting skewered doesn’t happen, Dalton squints one eye open.

A long shadow runs from the entrance of the alley, cloaking a tall, unfamiliar figure in darkness.

“Beat it bub. This ain’t your fight,” Joe warns, knife poised. George tenses.

“Wassamatta? I-hic-I oughta call the coppers on youuuu…” The stranger slurs in a deep baritone. “Come onnn, bohh-both of ya. Let’s all jus’ calm down and have a drink, okay?”

Liquid sloshes in a bottle the stranger’s holding as he sways, bracing a free hand against the brick wall for support.

A dumbbell of dread drops in Dalton’s stomach as his tormenters shoulders drop, relaxing. Nothing is ever allowed to work out in his favor, apparently.

“It’s just a drunk,” George reminds them, releasing a breath. The drunkard takes uneven steps towards the group, his body listing to the left so much that his shoulder scrapes against wall. He nearly loses his balance several times, threatening to face-plant at any moment. Then he stops, looking confused.

Joe scowls, exasperated.

“Ya got stupid between your ears, or something? I said get lost, ya lummox, before I—“

“HELP!” Dalton interrupts, voice loud enough to be heard down several blocks. He struggles, twisting his body desperately to try and wrest free. “Don’t just stand there looking ornamental! You waiting for an invitation or something!? Help me! Help m-mphh!”

A hand clamps over his mouth and suddenly he’s back on the ground, scrambling to get away but it’s no use; he’s pinned under a much heavier opponent who’s glaring at him with a sheen of bloodlust in his eyes.

“Orders be damned, I’ve had just about enough out of you.”

Dalton gapes in horror as Joe’s grip tightens over the knife’s handle. He bears down to drive the blade into Dalton’s face—only to catch an explosion of glass against his own temple as Gino hurls the bottle through the air with savage force.

Dalton catches a splash of wine on his cheek and scurries away as Joe’s eyes roll back, exposing the whites of his eyes. His body goes limp, colliding into the pavement with enough force to ensure at least some amount of lifelong damage.

Gino surges forward, arms raised in a defensive stance as he barrels towards George who, understandably, panics.

“W-wait! Stop! I didn’t do anything! Stop!!” George pleads, backing up towards the dead end behind him.

His request is firmly denied as the detective bum-rushes into George’s space, hooking an arm under the man’s thigh while charging into him and using the combined force and momentum to knock him off balance. George is slammed onto his back, unable to rise as a knee is planted on his chest to keep him in place.

It’s a wrestling move Gino’s executed hundreds of times before in sparring sessions with the only deviation being an a swift elbow strike to his George’s face which forces the man into unconsciousness.

For a while, everything is still. The only noises filtering into the night air are the distant sounds of traffic and Gino’s labored breathing.

He’s barely broken a sweat but still feels the unique exhaustion brought on from finally allowing himself to relax after a prolonged surge of adrenaline. He’d anticipated getting hurt tonight and whispers a silent prayer of thanks that it hasn’t happened.

Gino rises to his feet, turning to the young man leaning against the wall a few feet away. He looks dazed, eyes transfixed on the assailant lying in a puddle of mid-priced wine and gleaming glass. The knife lies discarded, out of reach.

Gino approaches Dalton taking care to make some noise to signal his approach. He pitches his voice slower and softer before speaking.

“Excuse me, sir…are you alright?”

The young man startles anyway, looking up at him with wide, glistening eyes. His ginger hair is fashioned into a disheveled pompadour. A red gash above his left eyebrow dribbles blood down the length of his face towards his neck; staining a bright pinstripe turquoise shirt and teal vest. He’s fine-featured, slender and fair skinned; a spattering of freckles adorning his face.

Rather than handsome, he’s beautiful. Gino’s fairly sure he’s seen more than a passing resemblance in French oil paintings.

Gino waits patiently for an answer. When none arrives, he’s about to ask the question again when Dalton opens his mouth. Blood spills over his lips instead of words and he sways. Gino reaches out instinctively, catching him before he collapses into an unconscious heap.

“Right.Let’s get you somewhere safe, for now,” Gino mutters to himself, gingerly manipulating the unconscious man until he’s properly secured over his shoulder.

He half carries, half walks them out of the alley, sparing a glance over his shoulder to make doubly sure the attackers are still unconscious.

Reassured, the two make their way down the street as a chilled Autumn wind whistles far above them.