The rain in Berlin fell like a warning that night—cold, insistent, relentless. Most people stayed in. Most people knew better than to wander near the edge of Kreuzberg after dark. But {{user}} wasn’t most people.

She walked with hesitant steps, soaked from the downpour, trying to find shelter. Her umbrella had snapped in the wind two blocks back. That’s when she saw the garage—dimly lit, loud music pulsing behind rusted doors, and the smell of oil in the air.

She knocked once. Then again.

The door opened like a threat, metal screeching. And there he stood.

Tall. Sharp eyes, the color of gunmetal. A jaw so tense it looked like it could cut glass. Tattoos ran up his neck like smoke. He didn’t speak—just stared.

"I—I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to disturb anything. I just needed to get out of the rain...”

{{user}} said, her voice barely louder than the storm.

Bill didn’t move, didn’t blink. He took in every detail of her—drenched hair, trembling fingers, innocent eyes too soft for this side of town.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

He said in a thick German accent. His voice was gravel. Dangerous. Beautiful.