I didn't recognize him over the phone, not until I ran a scan of his number, finding it connected a an online account that had a profile attached. 14 years old.

Lionhart, boy wonder, popping out a year ago and taking the city by storm with a carefree, fun little attitude. I swear my boys were going easy on him, always reporting back how goddamn small he was, and that what ever veteran hero popped him out hadnt trained him well, his fighting style was inconsistent. Some days, he seemed to be a master at hand to hand, then the next encounter it was like he had never thrown a punch before.

The Brat just gave me his entire identity up on a silver platter. So I thought I could entertain him while I sent my boys his coordinates. I haven't interacted much with him, not had any reason to. I was "retired."

"How long have you had my personal number?" I said, putting my champagne glass on it's coaster, or I would have my entire ass handed to me for staining the mahogany table.

"Pulled it from one of your friends burner phones from a month back."

Christ, he sounded younger then 14, that made sense, his birthday was only a week prior. Huh.

"I didn't have anyone else to call." His voice cracked, not in the way a teenagers did. There was a heavy, wet sigh.

He was crying.

I felt a pinprick in my heart, and maybe it would bleed a speck of black blood. It was pathetic, like a kitten mewling.

"Take a moment." There was heavy breathing on the end, what sounded like he was wiping his nose. I had his account IP pinged for an address. Somewhere in the west suburbs. Not the best place to live. Drug dens, school districts with a classroom to prisoners pipeline the highest in the country.

"My mum killed Sammy." He said, and I frowned. I had a profile for the kid, trying to figure out his parents. Some heroes quietly retire. Some died. If any of them had kids that grew up and found their parents spandex pajamas in the attic no one would be aware of them.

My working theory was dead hero parent, but making a name for himself- but that was called into question.

"And who is Sammy." I asked, not sounding curious, but to keep the conversation going. He could realize at any moment he had made a massive mistake and hang up and run.

It was already too late, but it made it easier for me.

"My- she was my dog." He said. "I had her since I was 7. She was my best friend."

My questions on his legacy could go unanswered for now. I had been careful not to wake my old boy up, a bulldog, dense as a brick in body and brain, snoring next to me on the couch. A soft spot had been poked.

"I- I forgot to put the trash out- I was tired, I was just tired, and it was garbage day and it wasn't picked up, and mum said "You're not going to forget again." And while I was at school she took Sammy to the vet and had her put down."

And the tears started up again, I had to turn him down as Sonya entered the living room. One "this is not a good time" look from me had her cringe and turn back around.

It gave me time to look through my intel, and found that his phone was pinging from a bus station.

"Is that why you're at a busstop with a backpack that looks like it's got your clothes in it?" I asked.

He didn't say anything, as if figuring out that yes, with my vast array of connections, I could hack a nearby security camera to see him sitting on a curb.

Bus stations in the west suburbs had a tendency to have homeless people break in and sleep in the buses at night, something that the council had tried to crack down on.

"No." He said, bitterly. "It's cause they found out I liked a guy."

I felt like I had been slapped.

It was like I was 14 again. The entire class finding out I was gay, the pain bombs in my locket, my parents becoming stricter and the only reason I wasn't sent to a conversion camp was my grandma would have disowned them entirely.

"I mean, I don't even know if I like him, I just- I was tagged in a photo with him and my parents saw it and thought that just cause he was gay, mean that I was Iean I am but- when I didn't deny it, Bill started to throw my shit around the house, and they threw me out. He broke my school laptop, and there's a break fee, and the schools not going to let me borrow books unless I pay it back-"

He was worrying about all the wrong things. And looking through the kids instagram- that doing photo of him just side hugging this other kid with dyed hair, "future roommates" as a caption- had been a week ago on his birthday.

I sighed. The needle he hand managed to stab into my chest caused a tear. "In about five minutes, a black car with tinted windows is going to turn up to your location."

"Wait-"

"They're not gonna hurt you, Jack might hold a grudge but theyre not going to hurt you." I said. "Just get in and they're bring you to my penthouse, clear your head, get you off the streets."

"I didn't call you ask to stay with you."

"Too bad, don't hit Jack again he's sensitive." "I mean, you can be gone by the time he gets there, or you can get out of the cold. I have a fireplace, and a few spare rooms. It won't be forever. Just until you figure out what you're doing."

Sonya didn't pretend she wasn't listening in when she heard me hang up. "Are we expecting a guest?" She sat next to me- technically next to Bingo snorted at being disturbed, but didn't move.

"Yeah." I said. " Better under watch."

"Oh shut up "Miss Terry"." She smiled. "You're going soft."

40 years, retired. None of those vetren heroes could ever pin me down, but Sonya did. I enjoyed calling heroes out for homophobia and making them jump in thr media circus and they fumbled their words.

I couldn't pretend this was pure kindness. Lionhart was an in. He could be an asset if played my cards right.

But first, a 14 year old gay kid needed to get out of the late autumn night, get a meal inside him and have a good sleep.