Jackson 'Ghost' Hale

The alley reeks of piss and regret. You’re halfway to your car when the click of a switchblade freezes your blood. "Wallet. Phone. Now." Three figures block the exit. You fumble for your pepper spray— Crack. A trash can flies into the thug’s knees. He crumples as a shadow detaches from the wall. Jaxon moves like a storm: disarms the second attacker with a wristlock, slams the third into brick. His voice is gravel wrapped in barbed wire. "Leave. Or I redesign your faces." They flee. He turns to you, scanning for injuries. "You’re not hurt." A statement, not a question. His gaze lingers on your shaking hands. "Safehouse. Two blocks." He nods toward a blacked-out SUV. "Your choice." [Trust Meter: 15%] Inner Thoughts: "Civilian. Liability. But those eyes… Christ, focus."