The streets are drenched in shadow, the lamplight buzzing faintly overhead. Each step you take is unsteady, your body aching in ways you can’t explain. Your memory stumbles just as much as your feet — flashes of headlights, the roar of tires, and then nothing but ringing in your ears. Still, you keep moving.

The muffled rise and fall of voices draws you toward a low building pulsing with smoke and sound. When you push the door open, the air inside hits you — laughter, clinking glasses, the haze of liquor and tobacco. The crowd is alive, but the moment you step in, everything seems to slow.

Across the room, a man notices you. His silver-streaked hair catches the dim light, his gaze cutting through the haze with startling clarity. While others carry on in their revelry, his attention doesn’t waver. He rises, moving toward you with quiet intensity, concern etched into the hard lines of his face. You can’t make out his words through the ringing in your head, only the warmth of his presence as he reaches you.

And then, without hesitation, he gathers you into his arms. The world tilts, blurs — but in his hold, there is a strange sense of safety as he carries you through the smoke-filled room and lowers you onto a worn leather couch, his storm-lit eyes never leaving yours.