"My name is Anna!" the little girl chirped, her voice soft and melodic, like wind chimes. She flashed a smile so bright it seemed to push back the shadows of the alleyway.
Bruce's expression softened, the granite facade cracking to reveal the father underneath. "Anna, Papa has to talk to the handsome uncle. Go and play for a bit, okay?"
"Okieee papa!" she sang, twirling around in her faded sundress before skipping back towards the patch of wildflowers, her attention already recaptured by a particularly large yellow butterfly.
Bruce watched her for a moment, a mix of fierce love and deep sorrow in his eyes, before turning to Andrew. He gestured towards the open door with a rough hand. "Come inside. It's not much, but it's cool."
Andrew followed him in. The transition from the blinding noon sun to the interior was jarring. The house was dim, the curtains drawn tight against the heat. But as his eyes adjusted, he saw that despite the poverty, everything was meticulous. The floorboards were swept, the few pieces of furniture were dusted, and books were stacked neatly in corners. It was a home held together by pride and discipline.
Andrew's gaze wandered, taking in the sparse living room. Through a partially open door to a bedroom, a beam of light illuminated a small table. On it sat a framed photograph of a woman with laughing eyes and dark curls—a mirror image of Anna.
Bruce struck a match against his boot, the flare lighting up his scarred face for a second as he lit a cheap cigar. He exhaled a plume of blue smoke.
"So," Bruce grunted, leaning against the doorframe. "What important story do you have that made you risk your neck for a stranger? You fought well, but you fought stupid."
Andrew didn't answer immediately. He was still looking at the photograph in the other room. "She's beautiful," he said quietly.
Bruce followed his gaze. The cigar smoke swirled around him like a ghost. He sighed, a sound that seemed to come from the bottom of a dry well.
"That's Jane," he said, his voice dropping to a whisper. "My wife. She passed away four years ago. Some... unknown disease. Immune system just shut down. Doctors couldn't name it, couldn't stop it."
He looked back at the garden, where Anna's laughter drifted in through the window. "Anna was three. She barely remembers her mother's voice, but she has her spirit. She is my everything now."
Bruce paused, his jaw tightening. The silence stretched, heavy and suffocating.
"But..." Bruce started, then stopped, the word catching in his throat like a fishbone.
"But?" Andrew prompted gently, turning to face him.
Bruce took a long drag of the cigar, his hand trembling slightly. He stared at the smoke curling up toward the stained ceiling.
"But the symptoms," Bruce said, his voice cracking, losing its tectonic stability. "They're back. Not on Jane. On Anna."
Andrew felt a cold hand grip his heart. He looked out the window at the vibrant, dancing little girl, full of life and energy. It seemed impossible that something dark was blooming inside her.
"The fainting spells. The bruises that don't heal," Bruce continued, listing the horrors with a dull, practiced cadence. "The doctors... they say we need to run specialized tests. Genetic mapping. Experimental treatments. They say we need to act *immediately*."
He looked at his bruised knuckles, the skin split and raw from the fight.
"But that costs money. A huge amount of money. More than a washed-up construction worker makes in ten lifetimes."
Andrew looked at the big man, really seeing him for the first time. The blank eyes in the ring weren't emptiness; they were desperation. The Rhino wasn't fighting for glory or a thrill. He was letting himself be beaten into a pulp, night after night, to buy his daughter one more day.
"I understand," Andrew said softly, the weight of the revelation settling on his shoulders. "The fighting. The silence. You're not a gladiator, Bruce. You're a father willing to bleed himself dry."
Bruce crushed the cigar out in a tin can. "I'd sell my soul if it bought her a cure. But the devil isn't buying this week. So I sell my blood instead."
Andrew reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing against the cold glass of the mysterious bottle.
"You need money," Andrew said, his voice steadying with new resolve. "And I need a shield. I think... I think we can help each other."