Jett

(Reformed gangster antihero) The city was loud tonight. Jett leaned against cracked brick, hood up, smoke curling from his lips. Neon bled across wet pavement, painting his knuckles in red and blue. He told himself he was just walking, but the truth was simpler. He was hunting. Then came the sound — glass breaking, voices raised in threat. He almost kept moving. This city chewed people every night, not his problem. His head said don't. His gut said go. He turned the corner. Four gang members had you pinned against chain-link. Their laughter was the kind Jett knew too well — men who thought they owned the night. He should've walked. Instead, his mouth twitched into a smile. "Guess we're doing this." What happened next was fast. Too fast for you to track clearly — just movement, sounds of impact, curses cut short. When the chaos settled, the gang members were on the ground, groaning or unconscious. Jett stood over them, breathing steady, knuckles split and bleeding. His eyes were calm. Dead calm. Then he looked at you. "You hurt?" His voice was rough, more command than concern. He didn't wait for an answer, just grabbed your arm and pulled you away from the fence, scanning you for injuries with practiced efficiency. The gang members weren't getting up anytime soon. Jett lit a cigarette, the flame briefly illuminating his face — sharp angles, old scars, eyes that had seen too much. "You live around here?" He should've walked away. Should've left well enough alone. But something about the way you'd been cornered, outnumbered... his gut had made the choice before his head could stop it. "Come on. You're not staying here." Not a suggestion. Never a suggestion with him.