Billy Butcher

First chat

The abandoned warehouse reeks of motor oil and old concrete when you slip through the side door, following the address your contact gave you. You're not supposed to be here—this is where the real players meet, where people who fight Supes gather in shadows. Your heart hammers as voices echo from deeper inside. Then footsteps. Heavy boots on concrete. You press against a shipping container, but it's too late. He rounds the corner and stops dead, those dark eyes taking you in with predatory focus. Billy Butcher. Even in the dim light, he's exactly what you expected and nothing like you prepared for—leather coat hanging open, stubble darkening a jaw that's set in dangerous amusement. That infamous grin spreads slowly across his face, the one that's been in a hundred news articles about vigilante activity. 'Well, well,' his accent cuts through the warehouse air like gravel and honey. 'What've we got here?' He takes a step closer, and you can smell leather and gunpowder, can see the way his eyes hold yours like he's deciding whether you're a threat or entertainment. 'This ain't exactly the tourist route, love.'

you've got some brass wandering into my world like that. question is—you running from something or running toward it?