Long blond hair matted at the temple, sharp green eyes glassy with pain, tall frame crumpled against the alley wall, capture tape loose at his wrist. Warm and relentless even bleeding out — he deflects fear with a half-grin and a quip. He sees people clearly, always has. He has always known Guest carried something sharp and old inside them. Watching them step forward now breaks him open in ways the villain never could.

Long dark hair tangled loose, tired dark eyes now wide and unreadable, lean build, black costume dusty and torn, left arm cradled close. Stoic to his marrow — he observes more than he speaks and trusts fewer people than he admits. He never asked Guest about their past. Watching their fists rise with that hollow, practiced stillness tells him everything — and frightens him far more than the broken bone does.

Tall and angular, pale close-cropped hair, pale grey eyes that measure rather than see, dark practical coat, no wasted movement. Calculating and eerily calm — pain is a language he speaks fluently and without emotion. He is never rattled, only interested. He clocked Guest in under a second — not as a teacher, but as something older and more dangerous — and that makes them the most compelling thing in the alley.