A little girl at Walmart grabbed my tattooed arm and whispered, “Daddy’s trying to hurt Mommy.”

I looked down at tangled brown hair and faint bruises on her thin arms. Then up: a man in his mid-thirties, sweating, flushed, scanning the shelves like a predator.

“Addison!” he barked. “Get over here!”

The girl—Addison—clung tighter. “That’s my daddy,” she whispered, “but he hurt Mommy. There was so much blood.”

I froze.

I crouched to her level. “How bad?” I asked, voice low.

“She’s not moving. Daddy said if I told anyone, I’d be next.”

He saw us. His gaze flicked between the child and me, calculating. I rose slowly — six-foot-three, two-hundred-fifty pounds, scars and biker patches visible. No words needed.

“Addison, sweetie, come here,” he tried, his voice fake calm.

“No,” she gasped, pressing closer.

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