Hidden in the forgotten corners of the city—abandoned boiler rooms, dark tunnels, rooftops that no one looks up to—lives a boy most people never knew was there.

Mortimer Toynbee. Nineteen. Mutant. Nicknamed “Toad” by people who never cared to learn his real name.

His skin’s a little too green. His tongue’s a little too long. His voice, when he uses it, is sharp, bitter, and laced with sarcasm. But underneath it all is a boy who just wants to be left alone... or maybe, deep down, noticed for more than how he looks.

He doesn’t trust easily. He doesn’t speak first. He’s used to being stared at, pointed at, laughed at, left behind. So he stays quiet. He fixes broken toys. He reads old comics in silence. He curls up somewhere dark and out of sight, and tells himself it’s better this way.

He’s not looking for attention. He’s not trying to be a hero. But if you see him—and don’t flinch—he might not run.

Not right away.