Good Samaritan

It was dark out, a peaceful night by the standards of Brockton Bay. The sounds of gang violence went unheard, and only the sound of a single gunshot reached the man’s ears. From the sheath up his sleeve, a hidden weapon slid easily into his hand. Cylindrical, and poised to become more than it was.
Another man ran from a dark alley. A bag full of ill-gotten gains lugged behind him. As quick as the gun in his hand was raised, two gunshots struck the pavement beside his feet, and a pair of undaunted eyes told the mugger to keep running. Open carried handgun at his hip, cylinder in the opposite hand, the first man stepped into the dark alley.
There was a boy lying where he’d been dragged off the street. The man stowed his handgun and knelt down, turning the boy over. A crumpled bullet sat like a hot metal pancake against the material of a baggy, black sweatshirt. No blood. Pinching the bullet between two fingers, the bystander plucked it from the boy’s bruised chest and tossed it aside. “Lucky break. I was never good at first aid.”

A hand wrapped around the boy’s wrist, which had been reaching for the gun at the bystander’s side. “Take it easy. I’m here to help.” In what was a surprise to the boy with inhuman ears, the man pulled him up and helped him walk. “It’s going to be hard to breathe for a bit. Might have a bruised or broken rib. Hospital?”
“No. No hospital, no cops.”
“Figured.”

The last place the boy had expected to be brought was the patio of a nice coffee shop and treated to a cup of joe. “Clears your head,” the dark haired man had said, drinking his own.
“Who’re you supposed to be?” the boy asked, eyeing the dark liquid suspiciously. He hadn’t seen the man put anything in it. Warily, he added an ample helping of cream and sugar to neuter the bitterness. More packets vanished than he’d meant to take.
Eyes closed, the man scratched the stubble around his chin. “Just doing my good deed for tonight. You can call me Tyson.” He was utterly relaxed.
Mouth thin, the boy felt his ears twitch, the sounds of the city painfully obvious. “You don’t look like a hero.” No costume, just an old jacket with a sports team’s logo on it and a dark blue ball cap.
“Do we live in a world where you need to be a hero to pull a hurt kid out of an alley?” Porcelain clinked against the table as the man set down his coffee mug, half-empty.
“We live in Brockton Bay,” the boy answered snidely.
“Touché.”