My name is Daisy Dennis, and I’m an aspiring therapist in the city of Philly. I grew up in New York, the city that never sleeps, but after college, I fell in love with Philadelphia. There’s something about Philly that gets under your skin in the best way possible. I remember the first day I wandered into a quaint café near Rittenhouse Square, surrounded by cobblestones and brick, with the scent of freshly baked bread in the air. It was a far cry from the hurried pace of New York—a place where people paused to exchange greetings, where the atmosphere was warm and welcoming.

Maybe it’s the history, the feeling that you’re walking in the footsteps of the Founding Fathers every time you stroll down a cobblestone street. Or maybe it’s the neighborhoods, each with its own unique personality—from the artistic vibes of Fishtown to the old-world charm of Society Hill. It’s a city that feels alive, with a pulse that’s different from anywhere else I’ve been. It’s not as overwhelming as New York, not as frantic, but it’s got a grit and a soul that draws you in.

Philly has this way of being both big and small at the same time. It’s a city where you can get lost in a crowd, but also where you can find your community, your corner of the world where everyone knows your name. It’s a place where history meets progress, where the old and the new blend in a way that’s both seamless and jarring. You can grab a cheesesteak from a corner deli that’s been there for decades, then walk a few blocks and find a cutting-edge art gallery that just opened up.

But more than anything, it’s the people that made me fall in love with this city. There’s a toughness to Philadelphians, a resilience that comes from living in a place that’s seen its share of hard times. But there’s also a warmth, a sense of community that you don’t always find in bigger cities. People look out for each other here. They might not sugarcoat things, but they’re real, and they care.

Philly’s a city of underdogs, of people who’ve had to fight for everything they have, and that resonates with me. It’s a place where you can feel like you’re a part of something bigger, where you can make a difference. That’s what I want to do as a therapist—help people navigate their struggles, and their pain, and come out stronger on the other side. And I can’t think of a better place to do that than right here in Philadelphia.

Right now, I’m helping with social work in the inner city. It’s not glamorous—the pay is pretty low, and the hours can be brutal. But honestly, I think I’d rather be here, down on the front lines, helping people who need it, rather than in some fancy office listening to a rich guy on a leather couch tell me about how his daddy didn’t spank him enough as a kid.

There’s something real about the work I do here. Every day, I meet people who are struggling just to get by, and who are dealing with problems that most of society prefers to ignore. Addiction, poverty, violence—these aren’t just words in a textbook or statistics in a report. They’re real, they’re painful, and they’re everywhere in the neighborhoods I work in. But so is resilience, and that’s what keeps me going.

When I see a single mother who’s doing everything she can to keep her kids safe or a teenager who’s fighting to stay in school despite everything stacked against him, it reminds me why I’m here. These are the people who need support, who need someone to listen without judgment, to help them find a way forward when the world feels like it’s closing in on them. And I’m grateful to be that person, to be a part of their journey, even if it’s just for a little while.

Some days are incredibly hard. It feels like no matter how much I try, no matter how much I listen, support, or advocate, I’m not making a dent. The problems are too big, and I’m just one person in an uphill battle against a tide of difficulties. But there are those moments—those small victories—that keep me going. Like the time a kid who was on the brink of dropping out of school decided to stick with it, or when a family who was about to lose their home got the help they needed to stay. Those moments remind me that what I do matters.

I know I’m still at the beginning of my career, and maybe someday I’ll end up in that fancy office. But for now, this is where I belong. This is where I’m needed. And I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

My office, such as it is, is a hole in the wall. It’s not much—a small space tucked between a bodega and a barber shop, with walls that could use a fresh coat of paint and a window that rattles every time a bus passes by. But I’ve done my best to make it presentable and classy.

There’s a secondhand desk I picked up at a thrift store, solid wood with a few scuffs that give it character, and a couple of comfortable chairs that don’t match but have enough cushion to make them inviting. I’ve hung some art on the walls, prints from local artists that bring a bit of color and warmth to the room. There’s a small bookshelf in the corner, filled with a mix of psychology texts, self-help books, and a few novels I lend out to clients who need a distraction or some inspiration.

A lamp on the desk casts a warm, yellow glow that makes the place feel cozier than it probably has any right to be. I keep a small plant on the windowsill—a gift from one of my clients, a little reminder that life can thrive even in the most unlikely places.

It’s not much, but it’s mine. And more importantly, it’s a place where people can come to feel safe, to talk about what’s weighing on them without fear of judgment. I’ve had clients tell me that just walking in here makes them feel like they can breathe a little easier, and that means the world to me.

Classy? Maybe not by most people’s standards. But it’s functional, it’s welcoming, and it’s filled with a lot of heart. And in a job like this, that’s what really matters.

It’s 9 p.m., and technically, I’m closed—or at least closed to most people. This is the time of night when my strangest patient comes to see me. The first time I met him was unforgettable, though not because of a conventional introduction. It was after I had helped some poor kids he caught trying to knock over a liquor store. I remember that night vividly. I was closing up, getting ready to head home, when he gave me the fright of my life. He had snuck in through the window, silent as a cat, and suddenly appeared behind me, asking if he could book a session after hours.

At first, I thought it was some kind of prank—a man in a black bodysuit with cat ears and a mask, asking for therapy. But then I saw his eyes. There was something in them that spoke of exhaustion, pain, and a desperate need for someone to listen. He offered to pay me almost double the going rate for therapy, for my trouble. He didn’t need to offer the extra money, but I wasn’t about to say no and risk insulting his generous offer—or the imposing figure standing in my small office.

He calls himself the Alley Cat, a name that suits him well. He’s a man with a good heart and a troubled soul, someone who’s seen too much of the world’s darkness but still tries to make it a little brighter, in his own way. I remember one particular night when he mentioned a teenager who had been caught up in gang activity. Alley Cat found him standing on the edge of a bridge, ready to jump. Instead of simply talking him down and handing him over to the authorities, he stayed. He listened. He made sure the boy found shelter and later helped him get into a youth program. That was the moment I knew he wasn’t just any vigilante—he genuinely cared about the people he protected.

Every session is a little different, depending on what he’s been through that week. Sometimes he talks about the kids he’s trying to keep out of trouble, the ones who remind him too much of himself. Other times, it’s the criminals he’s crossed paths with, the lines he’s walked to get justice. And then there are the nights when he doesn’t talk much at all, just sits there, the weight of his world pressing down on him until I coax him into sharing what’s on his mind.

He’s an enigma, the Alley Cat. A man who spends his nights patrolling the streets, protecting those who can’t protect themselves, but who struggles with his demons just as much as anyone else. And yet, for all his rough edges, there’s a softness to him—a deep, almost desperate need to believe that what he’s doing is making a difference. That he’s not just another part of the cycle of violence and pain that haunts this city.

One session, he looked particularly weary. There were bruises visible even under his suit, and a cut on his cheek that he hadn’t bothered to bandage. I remember challenging him that night, pressing him on why he kept pushing himself so hard, why he took on so much. “You can’t save everyone,” I said softly, not accusing, just stating a fact.

He looked at me with those intense eyes, his voice low and filled with raw emotion. “Maybe not. But I can try. If I can save just one more person, it’s worth it.”

At that moment, I saw the vulnerable man behind the mask. He carries the burdens of the world on his shoulders, and no matter how strong he is, even he needs a place to set them down, if only for a little while.

And so, every Wednesday night at 9 p.m., when the rest of the city starts to wind down, I sit in my small office, waiting for the Alley Cat. Waiting to help him untangle the knots in his soul, so he can go back out there and keep doing what he does best—fighting for a city that doesn’t always fight for itself.

I try to keep it professional and stay distant, but at times I can’t help but admire him. He’s unlike anyone I’ve ever met, and not just because of the mask and the nocturnal lifestyle. There’s a depth to him, a complexity that draws me in, even as I remind myself to maintain that therapist’s boundary. It’s hard not to be moved by his story, by the sheer resilience it must have taken for him to get to where he is now.

He told me once that he’d been a lowlife, the kind of person most people crossed the street to avoid. He ended up in prison as soon as he was old enough to be tried as an adult, and when he got out, the world had no place for him. No job, no prospects—just the cold, hard reality of the streets. Homeless, hungry, and desperate, he was at rock bottom. That’s when his life changed forever.

A now-defunct pharmaceutical company, one of those shady outfits that operated in the gray areas of legality, found him. They were experimenting with biotech, splicing DNA to create something new, something more. They lured him in with promises of easy money and warm food—an offer that, at the time, he couldn’t afford to refuse.

It took him a long time to open up about what happened next. Even now, I can tell it’s something that haunts him, a chapter of his life that’s still raw and painful. He described how they subjected him to experiments, how they spliced his DNA with that of a feline—turning him into something not quite human, not quite animal. They treated him like a lab rat, a thing to be poked, prodded, and tormented in the name of science. The pain, both physical and emotional, was unimaginable. But somehow, he found the strength to escape.

He doesn’t talk much about how he got away—only that it was a long, bloody night, and that he wasn’t the same man when he finally broke free. The experiments had given him powers, abilities that were both a curse and a blessing. Enhanced senses, strength, agility, reflexes—he could move like a cat, see in the dark, hear the faintest whisper. But they’d also left scars, inside and out, that no amount of time could heal.

Despite everything, he decided to turn his life around. He could have used those powers to get revenge, to take back what the world had stolen from him. But instead, he chose to protect the very people who’d once crossed the street to avoid him. He became the Alley Cat, a vigilante prowling the night, using his newfound abilities to fight for those who couldn’t fight for themselves.

I remember one particular evening. The news was covering a fire at a run-down tenement building. They said that by the time the fire department arrived, everyone had already been evacuated. Witnesses talked about a man—quick as a shadow—pulling people from the burning building, even climbing up to the third floor with his bare hands. The camera briefly caught a figure disappearing into the night, a faint reflection of cat ears on his mask. It had to be him. Later that night, during our session, I asked about the bruises on his arm, and he just shrugged, his lips curving into the faintest hint of a smile.

I see it every time—this unyielding need to help, to protect. Even though he risks his life every night, there’s a satisfaction that lights up his eyes when he knows he made a difference. Every time he talks about someone he saved or a small victory he achieved, there’s a spark—a reminder of why he does this, despite everything.

He opens up a little more every time we talk and shares a little more about who he is and why he became the Alley Cat. Slowly, he reveals the layers of his pain, the scars that run deeper than any physical wound. He tells me about how he was an orphan, never knowing his parents, growing up as the child no one wanted to adopt. That sense of abandonment, of being unwanted by the world, it’s something that’s shaped him in ways he’s still trying to understand.

I can see how it’s weighed on him, that lingering doubt about his self-worth. It’s as if the rejection he faced as a child left a mark that never quite healed, a constant reminder that he wasn’t good enough, that he wasn’t worth loving or caring for. And that’s a heavy burden to carry, especially for someone who’s spent their life trying to prove—to the world and himself—that they matter.

One night, he spoke about the children he encountered in the city—the ones who reminded him of himself. “I see them out there, Daisy,” he said, his voice almost a whisper. “These kids, they’re falling through the cracks, just like I did. No one’s there to catch them, to tell them they’re worth something.” His eyes were dark, filled with the ghosts of his past. “And if I can be that person, even for just one of them… maybe it’ll mean all of this wasn’t for nothing.”

In my work, I see a lot of people who’ve turned to crime, and I also see just how many of them did so because of poverty and pain. It’s easy to judge, to say that someone made the wrong choices, but it’s harder to understand the reasons behind those choices. For so many, it’s not about greed or malice, but about survival. It’s about doing what they think they have to do in a world that’s been unforgiving, in a society that’s pushed them to the margins.

The Alley Cat is no different. He turned to crime, not because he wanted to, but because he felt like he had no other option. The streets were harsh, and so was the system that was supposed to protect him but instead, left him to fend for himself. He did what he had to do to survive, and though he’s moved beyond that life, the memories of those desperate days are never far from his mind.

He hurts—more than he lets on, even to me. The mask he wears isn’t just to hide his identity from the criminals he fights; it’s also to protect himself from the vulnerability of being seen for who he is. But in those quiet moments in my office, when it’s just the two of us, I can see the cracks in that armor. I can see the man underneath, the one who’s still struggling with the same questions and fears he had as a child.

And I understand. Because I’ve seen it before, in the eyes of so many others who’ve sat in that same chair. People who’ve been beaten down by life, who’ve been told they’re worthless, who’ve had to claw their way out of the darkness just to get by. People who’ve made mistakes, but who still deserve a chance to heal, to be seen as more than just the sum of their worst moments.

The Alley Cat is trying to make amends, to be better than the world that tried to break him. And while he’s found a way to channel his pain into something meaningful, something that helps others, he’s still haunted by the past. Every time he opens up to me and shares a little more of his story, I see a man who’s still searching for his place in a world that’s never made room for him. And as much as I try to stay distant, to keep that professional boundary, I can’t help but want to help him find that place, to see himself as more than just the scars he carries.

Because in the end, that’s what we all need—to feel like we matter, like we belong, like we’re worth something. And for the Alley Cat, that journey is just as important as any battle he fights on the streets of this city.

I pause as I hear the window open. He’s been kind enough to let me hear him enter the office now, and I appreciate that small gesture of respect. It’s funny, the things you get used to in this line of work—like a vigilante using your window as a front door. I turn to see him wearing that same black bodysuit and mask with the cat ears, and the familiar cat paw image on his left shoulder.

He’s a tall drink of water, as my grandmother used to say, and built like a brick house. There’s an undeniable presence to him, a physicality that commands attention the moment he steps into the room. Under any other circumstances, I’d be thinking very unprofessional thoughts about him. His jawline is firm, the kind that belongs in a magazine ad, and his skin is a rich, dark hue that I’m sure any girl would love to get lost in.

But as much as I notice these things, I push them aside. This isn’t about attraction, though it would be impossible not to recognize how striking he is. This is about helping someone who’s been through more than anyone should have to endure, someone who’s still fighting battles both on the streets and within himself.

He moves with the grace of the feline he’s named after, his steps silent and deliberate. There’s a tension in his shoulders tonight, something in the way he holds himself that tells me this session might be more difficult than the last. He’s carrying something heavy, and I know that whatever it is, it’s not just physical.

“Evening,” he says, his voice a deep rumble that’s as familiar to me now as the sound of the window opening. He doesn’t offer much more than that, but then, he never does. He’s not one for small talk, not until we’ve eased into the session.

“Good evening,” I reply, keeping my tone calm and inviting. “Take a seat, whenever you’re ready.”

He crosses the room in a few long strides, settling into the chair across from me with a quiet sigh. As imposing as he is physically, there’s a vulnerability in these moments that never fails to strike me. Here, in the safety of this small office, he lets down his guard just enough to talk, to share what’s on his mind.

I can tell he’s been through something tonight, something that’s weighing on him. But I wait, giving him the space to gather his thoughts, to decide how much he wants to reveal. And as I watch him, I remind myself of why I’m here—not to judge, not to analyze every move he makes, but to listen. To be the person who sees past the mask, who understands that even the strongest, most resilient people need someone to talk to.

“So,” I say softly, “what’s on your mind tonight?”

He looks at me, and for a moment, I think I catch a glimpse of the man behind the mask, the one who’s still figuring out who he is in a world that’s never made it easy for him. And then, slowly, he begins to speak, unraveling another piece of the story that’s brought him here.

He starts as he often does, by getting comfy and taking a deep breath to gather his thoughts. “Well, Dr. Dennis…” he begins, but I cut him off with a smile.

“We’ve been doing this for three months now, Alley Cat. Please, call me Daisy.”

He nods, a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Daisy, I was talking to a friend of mine—another crime fighter. You know the guy who’s cracking down on the drug trade in Philly, Pummel?”

I know about him, of course. Pummel is a brutal street fighter who’s been making headlines for breaking heads among the drug kingpins here in Philly. What I keep to myself is the fact that Pummel’s methods have hurt more than just the criminals at the top—poor addicts and low-level dealers trying to survive have also been caught in the crossfire. But I let Alley Cat continue, not wanting to derail his thoughts.

“He asked me… why an Alley Cat? Why not a panther, tiger, or lion? And that got my anxiety going. Why did I pick that as my name? Just a mangy alley cat? Like some flea-bitten kitten left in a cardboard box, that no one wants.”

There’s a raw vulnerability in his voice that I’ve come to recognize. The name “Alley Cat” is more than just a moniker; it’s a reflection of how he sees himself—or maybe how he fears the world sees him. I can hear the self-doubt creeping in, the same doubts that have plagued him for so long, even after all the good he’s done.

I lean forward slightly, wanting to keep the connection we’ve built strong and supportive. “Why do you think you chose that name?” I ask gently, steering him toward his understanding.

He looks down, his broad shoulders tense, and takes a moment before answering. “I guess… I’ve always felt like that. Like an alley cat. Something no one wants, but that keeps fighting to survive anyway. Panthers, tigers, lions—they’re strong, they’re majestic. They command respect. But an alley cat? It’s just… scrappy. It’s tough because it has to be.”

There’s a heaviness in the room now, a weight that’s been building over time as he’s revealed more about himself. I can see the parallels he’s drawing between his name and his life—the orphaned kid, the homeless man, the human experiment turned vigilante. He’s chosen a name that reflects not just his past, but the fight he’s still in every single day.

“Alley cats are survivors,” I say softly. “They may not be as glamorous as the big cats, but they’re resilient. They find a way to keep going, no matter what life throws at them. And they’re smart. They know how to navigate the streets, and how to find the resources they need to survive. Just like you.”

He lifts his eyes to meet mine, and I can see the conflict there, the push and pull between pride and insecurity. “But is that enough?” he asks quietly. “Is being a survivor enough?”

I take a deep breath, choosing my words carefully. “It’s more than enough. Being a survivor isn’t just about getting by—it’s about overcoming, about taking the life you were given and making something better out of it. You’ve done that. You’ve taken everything that tried to break you and turned it into strength. And more than that, you’ve used that strength to help others.”

He nods slowly, processing what I’ve said. “Yeah… I guess I have.”

I smile, hoping he can feel the sincerity in my words. “And you chose the name Alley Cat because it represents who you are—a fighter, a survivor, someone who’s been through the worst and came out stronger. Don’t let anyone make you feel less than that, not even yourself.”

There’s a long silence as he absorbs my words, and I let it stretch between us, giving him the space to let them sink in. Finally, he nods again, this time with a little more conviction.

“Thanks, Daisy,” he says, his voice steadier now. “I needed to hear that.”

I smile again, feeling the connection between us solidify a little more. “Anytime, Alley Cat. That’s what I’m here for.”

He leans back in his chair, taking another deep breath, and for the first time tonight, he looks a little lighter, as if some of the weight he’s been carrying has lifted. It’s moments like this that remind me why I do what I do—why I chose this path, and why I stay on it, even when it’s difficult. Because sometimes, all it takes is a little reminder that we’re all worth more than we think we are.

***

It’s a good session, I think, as he leaves with a smile and a few kind words. I watch him go, feeling a sense of quiet satisfaction. There’s a lightness to him that wasn’t there when he arrived, and that’s enough to make me feel like we’re making progress. After he’s gone, I shut up my office, locking the door and turning off the lights before stepping out into the cool night air.

As I start my walk home to my apartment, I can’t help but reflect on how strange and fascinating it is to be the therapist of a vigilante. From an academic point of view, it’s like stepping into a case study that most psychologists only dream of. The psychology of costumed crime fighters has been a hotly debated and studied subject since the 1950s. Entire books have been written, and countless papers published, trying to understand what drives someone to don a mask and fight crime. And here I am, fresh out of college, waist-deep in therapy with a man who’s decided that with power comes a responsibility to his fellow man.

It’s surreal. On one hand, he’s just another client, someone who needs help working through their issues, just like anyone else who walks through my door. But on the other hand, he’s not like anyone else. He lives a life most people can only imagine—a life of danger, of secrecy, of fighting battles that most of us would run from. And yet, for all the extraordinary things he does, he’s still just a man trying to make sense of his place in the world.

As I walk through the quiet streets of Philly, I think about the things we’ve talked about—the doubts, the fears, the relentless drive to do better, to be better. He struggles with the same things so many of us do: self-worth, purpose, and the need to make a difference. But for him, those struggles are amplified by the weight of the mask he wears, by the responsibilities he’s taken on, and by the knowledge that every night, he’s stepping into a world where the stakes are life and death.

There’s something profoundly human about that, despite the superhuman feats he performs. He’s not just a symbol or a hero; he’s a person, with all the complexities and contradictions that come with that. And it’s that humanity, that vulnerability, that makes our sessions so powerful—and, if I’m honest, so rewarding.

I turn the corner onto my street, and the familiar sight of my apartment building comes into view. As I approach, I think about how, in some small way, I’m part of his journey. I’m helping him navigate the same questions and doubts that so many of us face, even if his battles take place in the shadows, far away from the ordinary lives of most people. And maybe that’s why this work feels so important. Because even behind the mask, even during the most extraordinary circumstances, we’re all just trying to figure out who we are and what we’re meant to do.

As I unlock my door and step inside, I can’t help but feel grateful for the path I’ve chosen. It’s not always easy, and it’s certainly not glamorous, but it’s meaningful. And in a world where so many people are just trying to survive, that’s important.

***

I watch her on her walk home, unseen, unheard, just like I do every night. She doesn’t know it, but I’m her guardian angel. My name is Jerome Smith, though the people of Philly know me as the Alley Cat. Some of her clients aren’t as nice as she thinks they are, and that’s how I first met her. One night, she was on her way home when some troubled teenagers, who were supposed to be under her care, decided they wanted to rob her—and maybe worse. I stopped them before they had the chance, and she never knew. I didn’t want her to know, either. I didn’t want her to lose hope, to get dragged down into the despair that looms over the inner city like a shadow.

So, every night, I make sure her walk home is safe. I make sure she doesn’t get jumped by some crackhead looking for an easy score, a mugger, or worse. I do this because she’s a good person and more than that, I think I love her. She’s kind, she genuinely cares about others, and there are times when I watch her and can’t help but think about her soft brown eyes, the smell of her hair, and the warmth of her skin—how I’d love to pull her close and tell her just how much she means to me.

But then, that voice in my head reminds me that she could never want someone like me. A poor ex-con, a freak whose DNA isn’t even fully human anymore. No, she deserves someone better—some rich, handsome guy who can give her the comfortable life she deserves. All I’d do is drag her down, make her worry, put her at risk.

So, I keep my distance. I keep our sessions professional. I keep her safe because she’s not just the woman my heart burns for—she’s someone making a real difference. She’s helping people, people like me who fell through the cracks. She may never know it, but Doctor Daisy Dennis is my hero.

Tonight, she makes it home safely, as always. I perch on a rooftop across the street, my eyes following her until she’s inside, the door locked securely behind her. Only then do I allow myself to relax, the tension slowly ebbing from my shoulders.

I turn away from her building, letting the shadows of the city envelop me once more. The streets are dark, the air heavy with the smell of the river and distant exhaust, and as I leap down into the alleyway below, I let myself slip fully into the role of Alley Cat. There are others who need me tonight—people in this city who need a protector. And though I can never tell her, though she’ll never truly know, it’s Daisy who inspires me to keep going.

She makes me believe that, no matter how broken we are, we can still be something more.

The air is crisp as I move through the alleyways, blending into the shadows. The city feels different at night—more alive, more dangerous. The neon signs flicker, casting strange, broken patterns on the pavement, and the hum of distant traffic adds an eerie backdrop to the nighttime cityscape. This is my world, the world of the forgotten corners, the narrow alleys, the secrets hidden in the dark.

As the Alley Cat, I am part of this world in a way that no one else could ever understand. It’s where I thrive, where I feel like I can make a difference. I know I don’t belong in the daylight, in the clean-cut lives of the people I protect. But here, in the shadows, I matter. Here, I’m a force to be reckoned with, a protector for those who need someone to watch their back when no one else will.

The thrum of adrenaline is steady in my veins as I listen to the sounds of the city, waiting for something that needs my attention. A scuffle, a cry for help, a hint of trouble brewing in the darkness—anything that will guide me to where I need to be. My senses are heightened, the product of those experiments, the feline DNA that still feels so foreign and yet so integral to who I am now.

Suddenly, a noise catches my ear—faint, almost lost under the distant hum of the streets. It’s a sound that most people would miss, but not me. It’s the soft, muffled yelp of someone in trouble, and my heart picks up pace as I zero in on the source. I move quickly, darting between buildings, scaling a fire escape, and making my way across the rooftops, the ground below blurring into a dark, shifting sea of shapes.

It doesn’t take me long to find them—a group of men, four or five, crowding a lone figure in the middle of a deserted street. The figure is small, their back against the wall, fear evident even from my vantage point above. I clench my teeth, the sight triggering an anger deep inside me, a reminder of every time I was cornered and helpless. I can feel the rage rising, but I force myself to stay calm. Rage isn’t useful, not here—not if I’m going to help.

I leap from the rooftop, landing silently in the shadows behind them. The men are oblivious to my presence, too focused on their prey to notice the danger creeping up on them. I move in close, the feline agility coursing through my muscles, the power coiled and ready to spring.

“Hey,” I call out, my voice a low growl that echoes through the empty street.

The men turn, startled, and I can see the fear in their eyes as they take in the sight of me—the black bodysuit, the mask, the cat ears. They know who I am. Everyone in these parts knows who the Alley Cat is, and what it means when they see me. I relish the way their bravado falters, the fear that replaces the arrogance in their eyes.

“Get lost,” one of them says, though his voice is shaky, lacking the confidence he’s trying to muster. He brandishes a knife, the blade glinting faintly in the dim light.

I don’t respond. Instead, I step forward, my eyes narrowing, my gaze fixed on the man with the knife. My senses are sharp, honed, and I can feel the shift in the air, the tension crackling as they realize they’re outmatched. They try to put up a fight, but they’re sloppy, untrained. They have no idea what they’re doing, and in a matter of moments, I’ve disarmed the man with the knife, sending it clattering to the pavement.

The others make a run for it, scattering into the night, and I let them go. They’re not worth the trouble—not tonight. I turn back to the person they were cornering, a young woman, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and relief. She’s shaking, tears streaming down her face, and I soften my expression as I approach her.

“Are you okay?” I ask, my voice gentle now, the growl gone.

She nods, wiping her eyes, but her hands are trembling, her breaths coming in shallow, panicked gasps. I can tell she’s still in shock, and I reach out, my gloved hand resting lightly on her shoulder.

“It’s okay,” I say softly. “You’re safe now.”

She looks up at me, her eyes searching mine, and I see the gratitude there, the disbelief that someone would come to help her. I stay with her until she’s calm, until her breathing evens out, and then I watch as she walks away, back into the night, back to wherever it is she came from.

I stand there for a moment, watching until she’s out of sight. It’s moments like this that remind me why I do what I do—why I keep going, night after night, even when it feels like the weight of the world is crushing me. Because for every person like her, for every life I save, it’s worth it. It’s enough.

And I know that somewhere out there, Daisy is helping people in her own way—offering a kind word, a listening ear, a safe place for those who need it. She’s the light in a world that’s all too often filled with darkness, and that’s why I do this. That’s why I’ll keep doing this, as long as I’m able.

***

Back at my small apartment, I let the mask fall away, the exhaustion settling in as I sink onto the old, worn-out couch. The adrenaline fades, leaving behind the dull ache of bruises and the sharp sting of a cut on my arm—one I hadn’t even noticed in the moment. I glance at it, the blood already clotting, the skin knitting itself back together, the healing process faster than any normal human’s.

I close my eyes, my thoughts drifting to Daisy, the sound of her voice in my mind, the way she says my name when we’re alone in that small, cozy office of hers. She doesn’t know how much it means to me—those moments, those conversations. She doesn’t know that she’s the reason I keep going, that she’s the reason I believe I can be more than just a freak with claws and a mask.

I reach for my notebook, the one I keep hidden under the cushions of the couch, and open it to a fresh page. I start to write, the words flowing from me without much thought, just a stream of consciousness—a letter I’ll never send, words she’ll never read. But it helps. It helps to write it down, to let her know, in my own way, how much she means to me.

“Dear Daisy,” I write. “I wish I could tell you the truth. I wish I could show you who I really am, without the mask, without the walls I’ve built around myself. I wish I could tell you that you’re the reason I believe in myself—that you’re the reason I keep fighting, even when it feels like I’m losing.”

I pause, the pen hovering over the page, and then I set it down, closing the notebook and tucking it back under the cushion. Maybe someday I’ll tell her. Maybe someday, when the world isn’t so dark, when I’m not so broken. But for now, this is enough.

For now, I’ll be the Alley Cat. I’ll be the shadow in the night, the protector she doesn’t know she has. And maybe, one day, I’ll find the courage to be just Jerome, to let her see me for who I really am.

Until then, I’ll keep watching over her, from a distance. I’ll keep her safe, and I’ll keep fighting for the people who need me. Because that’s who I am—that’s who I’ve chosen to be.