After a long night of dancing half-naked for a bunch of perverts and fending off their roaming hands, I couldn't wait to get home. It was nearly 3 am and I was dead on my feet but that wasn't unusual after a long shift at The Dollhouse. That place could suck the life out of anyone and the trip home after work was never much better.

I knew it wasn't smart for me to walk through the Narrows alone in the darkness but since my apartment was only a couple of blocks away, I always risked it rather than waiting around for a ride. The streets were mercifully empty at that time of morning anyway and the solitude gave me some time to decompress after hours of plastering on a fake smile.

Though it was summer, there was a damp chill in the air that meant fog would be rolling in by sunrise. As a cold breeze picked up, raising goose bumps on my skin, I wrapped my arms around myself and wished I'd remembered to grab my hoodie.

Half a block from my building, an agonized scream split the silence and stopped me in my tracks. The sound had come from the alley just ahead of me and now that I was listening, I could hear the sounds of a struggle.

My first instinct was to turn and run in the opposite direction. The primal part of my brain told me that was the smartest thing to do, the choice that would ensure I lived to see another dirty night in the Narrows. But the human part of my brain urged me to creep forward, right up to the edge of the dark alley. As I peered around the corner, I could just make out the figures moving in the shadows. The wind blowing through the narrow passage carried with it the smell of wet garbage and blood.

As my eyes adjusted, I saw that four people were standing maybe ten or fifteen feet away from me. Two of them were restraining a third, pinning him back against the brick wall, as the fourth paced in front of them. I couldn't see their faces but all the men appeared to be well-dressed except for the one against the wall.

"Did you really think you could get away with stealing from us?" the pacing man asked in a low, accented voice. As he moved, I could see the glint of something silver in his hand. It was a knife, I realized, with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. "You must be fucking crazy."

The man against the wall spoke, much too low for me to hear, and I saw the guy with the knife lean closer to him. "Hm? What was that?"

In an instant, the man broke free and lunged forward. I gasped as he headbutted the guy with the knife, sending him stumbling back against the opposite wall, groaning in pain.

The man continued to struggle even as the two thugs wrenched his arms sharply and forced him back. I saw him spit what looked to be blood at the feet of the guy with the knife.

"No, I'm not," he said, louder this time. His voice sounded strange, like he was speaking through gritted teeth.

As the other man straightened up, I heard one of the thugs ask, "You okay, Angelo?"

"I'm fine," the guy with the knife, apparently Angelo, replied calmly. To my surprise, he didn't immediately attack his victim. Instead, he laughed in his face.

"I take it back," he told the man, twirling the gleaming knife around in his hands so it caught the light. "You're not crazy. You're stupid. You thought you were so smart with your little scheme, didn't you? You thought you could get away with it. But now everybody's got you figured out and you've got nothing. You're a fucking joke."

I nearly jumped out of my skin as he dove back into the fray, grabbing the man by the hair with one hand and bringing the knife up with the other. The man against the wall let out an unearthly howl of pain and my stomach lurched violently. I couldn't see what Angelo was doing to him but it must've been horrifically painful. And it seemed to go on forever as the goons laughed like a couple of hyenas.

Covering my mouth with trembling fingers, I tried to stop myself from either screaming or vomiting, both of which felt necessary and inevitable. By the time Angelo stepped back to admire his handiwork, his victim was slumped back against the wall, held up only by the men gripping his arms.

"Look at that smile, boys," he said, chuckling. "I think he finally gets it."

Just then, a car passing slowly on the street behind me honked its horn, probably at the stray cat eating from a discarded Cheetos bag in the middle of the road, and three of the men turned to look in my direction. I ducked back around the corner with my heart pounding wildly.

Run, my brain told me frantically. Run while you still can. Go home and hide before they cut you to ribbons too.

But as the street fell silent once more, I heard the pounding of footsteps fading away down the alley. Still trying to catch my breath, I dared to peek back around the corner and saw there was only one figure left. As I watched, he slid down the wall and collapsed onto the wet ground.

I knew I should just leave him there. People in the neighborhood tended to fend for themselves. I hesitated for a moment and then, cursing under my breath, I ducked into the alley.

I approached him slowly and carefully, like one might approach a wild animal. He was hunched over and I could see his thin, bony shoulders trembling under the threadbare black t-shirt he wore. Against my better judgment, I knelt beside him and shifted out of the way to let the dim light from the street lamps reach his face. What I saw there made me feel queasy all over again.

The man was holding his hands out under his mouth and I could see them shaking violently as blood poured through his fingers and pooled in his palms.

"Oh my god," I breathed, throwing caution to the wind as I reached out to touch his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

When he looked up at me, the first thing I noticed was his eyes. They were dark, nearly black, but they were bright with a mixture of fear and pain. The second thing I noticed was the cuts. The guy they called Angelo had sliced through the corners of his mouth, extending them clear across his face in a cruel parody of a wide smile. It was a horrific sight.

The blood was pouring down his cheeks, running down his neck in thick, dark rivers. I was no doctor but I knew that was too much blood for someone to be losing.

"It's going to be okay," I told him, trying to sound reassuring even though I was terrified. "I'm going to, uh, get you to a hospital and-"

My words cut off in a gasp as his blood-soaked hand shot out and grabbed my wrist in a crushing grip that seemed to grind all the little bones together.

"No," he growled, and another wave of blood spilled over his lips.

"You've got to be kidding!" He glared up at me and I glared right back, trying to pry his fingers away from my arm. "I don't think you realize how bad this is. If you don't let me help you, you're going to sit here and bleed to death."

As I spoke, his grip on my wrist loosened and I saw his eyelids flutter. When his hand slipped down my arm, I caught it in mine and squeezed his fingers hard, hoping to rouse him. It seemed to work; he looked up at me and blinked rapidly as if trying to clear the haze that had settled over him.

After a moment, he squeezed my hand back weakly and my chest ached for him. He looked so vulnerable, I knew I couldn't just leave him there. Then a thought crossed my mind…George. As soon as it occurred to me, I knew it was my only option.

"Come on, let me help you up," I told him as I climbed to my feet and offered him my other hand as well. When he just looked at me, I sighed. "I only live half a block away. I know someone who might be able to help you."

His blood-slick fingers slipped through mine as I tugged him upright but I managed to catch him by the wrists and get him onto his feet. He swayed a little and when I wrapped my arm around his waist, he leaned heavily on me.

As I led him out of the shadows and onto the street, I glanced up at him. "What's your name?"

He cut his eyes at me and for a while, I didn't think he was going to answer. But then, reluctantly, painfully, he managed to say, "Jack."

"Jack," I repeated, nodding. Easy enough to remember. "My name's Cat. Cat Greene."

He only grunted in response.

We made it up the front steps without much trouble but by the time we got to the second floor and I unlocked my door, I was supporting almost all of his weight.

Like most cheap places in Gotham, my apartment was small and the bathroom was only a few steps away. I flipped on the overhead light and then helped him over to the sink.

That was when he got his first look at his new face. Gripping the edge of the counter, he went still as he stared at his gory expression. The wounds looked so much worse under the bright lights.

"You see?" I said in a shaky voice. "I told you that you needed to go to the hospital."

He shot me a venomous look and collapsed back against the wall, his chest heaving.

"Just stay right there. I'm going to go get someone to help you," I told him. When his brow furrowed, I added, "Don't worry. He's definitely not a cop."

Despite the time, I didn't think twice about knocking on George Getz's door. Due to the scandalous nature of his line of work, his back alley medical office kept odd hours. He was probably just getting home as well. Sure enough, he was wide awake and fully dressed when he opened the door.

"What's wrong?" he asked, his eyes immediately drifting down. I followed his gaze to find myself absolutely covered in Jack's blood. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I told him. "But I've got a friend who really needs your help. Do you think you can stitch him up?"

He glanced down at the blood again and gave me a hard look before he nodded. Disappearing into his apartment for a moment, he grabbed his beat-up old doctor's bag and then followed me down the hall.

"What happened to this friend of yours?" he asked, his voice stern.

"It's bad, George," I told him shakily as I held my door open for him. "He's in the bathroom."

If possible, Jack looked even worse. He was on the floor, with his eyes closed and his face ashen under all the blood. He barely stirred as George and I crowded into the small room with him.

For the first time since I'd met him, George seemed flustered. He looked back and forth between my face and Jack's several times, a deep furrow appearing between his brows.

"You know this man needs a hospital," he told me in a grave tone. "I'm not sure I can help him."

"Please, George. I tried but he wouldn't go." I hesitated before adding quietly, "I think he might be in some kind of trouble."

"You think," he repeated flatly and then sighed. "Well, then help me get him up. We need to try to get him onto the kitchen counter or something."

Jack was nearly deadweight but between the two of us, we managed to get him to his feet, walk him into the kitchen, and haul him up onto the counter. I ran to get some clean towels and then George began gently dabbing away the blood.

Underneath, the wounds were much worse than I'd thought. They were uneven, jagged, and worst of all, they seemed to go all the way through. There was also a deep, Y-shaped gash on his bottom lip that I hadn't noticed before. I figured it must've happened when he struggled.

I watched George mutter to himself as he laid out his supplies and after that, the next few hours were a blur of pain and blood. It was gruesome work and it seemed to me that it took a long, long time. Outside the window over my sink, I could see the sky lightening as the sun rose over Gotham.

As weak as he was, I expected Jack to pass out once George started but he was awake the whole time. He handled it much better than I would've but I knew it was excruciating. His hands clenched into fists and his feet twisted around in circles, his heels digging into the counter as he fought against the pain to stay still.

At one point, I took his hand, unfurled his fingers, and linked them with my own, offering him the only support I could. Immediately, his eyes popped open, full of fire, and focused on my face. It was unsettling but I forced myself not to look away. I knew he was hurting, scared, and probably traumatized. He squeezed my hand until the pressure was agonizing, taking his pain out on me, but I held fast.

By the time George was finished, Jack's face was a mess of black stitches. It looked like something out of a horror movie. He was practically catatonic as I helped him to the couch while George went back to his apartment to hunt down some pain pills. It took both of us to get him to swallow them but his eyelids were already slipping closed when I followed George out into the hallway.

"The scars are going to be really bad, aren't they?" I asked him quietly and George hummed in agreement.

"Terrible. A plastic surgeon could've probably minimized them but even then…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "I wouldn't be surprised if he has nerve damage."

I walked him back to his apartment, said my goodbyes, and was turning to leave when he stopped me. "Listen, sweetheart, don't take this the wrong way but…how well do you know that man?"

When I gave him a look, he continued, "I know, I know. It's none of my business. Just be careful, okay? I don't know what he did to deserve to have his face carved up like that but it couldn't have been good."

I gaped at him. "I don't care what he did, nobody deserves to be mutilated like that."

"I understand where you're coming from but that?" He jerked his thumb towards my door and, presumably, the man behind it. "That was a message. They cut him deep, with purpose. Somebody either wanted him to bleed to death or to wear those scars for the rest of his life."

I looked away from him as the words I'd heard Angelo say back in the alley echoed through my head. Did you really think you could get away with stealing from us? It didn't take a rocket scientist to figure out that "us" was some faction of the mob.

"I just want you to take care of yourself, okay?" he said, patting me on the shoulder with his usual pseudo-fatherly concern. "You know where I am if you need me."

"I know," I told him, managing a smile. "Thank you again for all your help. I don't know what I would've done without you."

"Don't mention it." He waved it off. "You're a good girl. Just don't let that goodness get you hurt."

"Alright, Dad." We shared a smile at that. "I'll see you later."

When I walked back into the living room, Jack was sleeping. After a quick search of the linen closet, I found a blanket and draped it over him, careful not to wake him.

But I needn't have worried. He didn't stir even as I wiped down the kitchen counter, piled the ruined towels into a garbage bag, and scrubbed the bloody handprints off my bathroom sink. When I was done, I stood in the shower and watched his blood wash off my skin and down the drain.

I checked on him one last time before bed and found he hadn't moved. Standing there in the darkness, I took a moment to study his face. He was younger than I'd originally thought, maybe just a few years older than me. He was also incredibly handsome, or had been before tonight.

His hair was curly and a little shaggy, in need of a good cut where it hung down over his ears. It might've been dirty blonde if it was clean but since it was wet and tinged with blood like every other part of him, it was impossible to tell.

I remembered his eyes being so dark they looked black when he stared at himself in my bathroom mirror. Against his pale face, the effect had been more than a little ghoulish. But under the kitchen light, I'd noticed they were a very deep, very rich brown with flecks of green.

He had wonderful bone structure too – prominent cheekbones, a strong, straight nose, and a sharp jawline. He was tall and much too skinny. I'd felt his ribs digging into me as he leaned on me for support. The boy was desperately in need of a few good meals.

All in all, he didn't look much like a criminal and he certainly didn't look like someone who deserved to have his face so terribly butchered. He looked young and innocent, another victim of the Narrows. Another victim of Gotham.

Sighing and suddenly, terribly exhausted, I headed down the hall and into my bedroom. I felt like I could sleep for a month. But halfway to my bed, George's words ran through my mind.

Thinking again about my handsome, damaged guest, I shuddered as I locked my bedroom door.