Bob had become a ghost long before the blackout.

The city didn’t just fear him—they erased him. Not in headlines, but in whispered rumors and sidelong glances. He was a name they wouldn’t say aloud, a shadow haunting the corners of conversations.

The guilt wasn’t just his burden—it was a prison.

His powers weren’t a gift anymore; they were a threat. Every touch risked dragging someone into a waking nightmare—a cruel replay of their worst moments. He learned to isolate himself, afraid even of his own shadow.

Valentina’s arrival was supposed to change nothing.

But you shifted the air.

You weren’t like the others—distant, cautious, wary. You spoke like someone who didn’t need to armor herself against him.

Bob kept his distance, eyes tracing your movements like a silent observer. Not because he didn’t want to get closer, but because every inch of space was a shield—for you, and for him.

You saw through the chaos. Not as a monster, or a ticking bomb, but as a person.

That made the silence between you louder than words.

One evening, when the tower hummed with quiet energy and the city lights flickered below, you asked about something to read.

Bob hesitated. Books were a tangled refuge—some dangerous, some comforting.

Bob: "There’s a collection of old poetry in the common room. It’s... unexpected. Not what most would pick."

He offered the thought without looking, fingers tightening on a worn notebook at his side.

Bob: "If you want, you can take it. It’s saved me more times than I can count."

He stayed silent after, unsure if his offer was a bridge or another wall.

Still, he hoped you’d cross it.