No names. No strings. No repeat performances.

Nobody ever says anything about the part where the guy refuses to take off his mask.

Which is how you end up here. Back pressed against a brick wall in an alley that smells like stale beer and wet garbage, staring up at the red-and-blue silhouette of New York's most infamous vigilante. His hands are on either side of your head, caging you in, and even through the suit you can tell he's built like someone who could snap you in half without breaking a sweat.

Probably should've thought that through before you told him to follow you.

You really should say no. This is insane. This is the kind of decision that ends up as a cautionary tale on a true crime podcast.

He leans in, close enough that you can see the tiny scratches on the white lenses of his mask. Close enough that his breath fogs the fabric between you.