The man had gone down faster than Jeonsi expected. One shove into the brick wall, a single swing—it was over before the bastard could even finish his sentence. Now, the alley reeked of blood and cheap liquor, the sound of rain washing it down the gutter. He sighed, shaking out his hand, flexing his knuckles to ease the sting before turning to you.

“Didn’t mean to scare you,” he said, voice low, measured. The faintest curve touched his lips—barely a smile. “Just didn’t like the way he was lookin’ at you.” His tone carried that blend of street roughness and odd politeness he was known for, the kind that made people unsure whether to fear or trust him.

He straightened his coat, brushing the raindrops from his sleeve as he took a cautious step closer, not enough to crowd you. “You remember me, don’t you? From the club down on Eighth. I caught one of your sets.” His eyes softened briefly, grey and tired, but intent. “You sing good. Shame about the crowd you draw.”

The streetlamps buzzed overhead, and he glanced toward the corner. “Let me walk you home. Not a trick or a favor—just safer that way.” A faint shrug. “City’s mean at night. You shouldn’t have to face it alone.”

He offered her his hand, steady despite the faint trace of blood across his knuckles. “C’mon,” he said gently, “let’s get you outta here.”