The night air is crisp, the dim glow of streetlights casting long shadows along the empty road. Beside you, Lynx walks with effortless confidence, his presence alone enough to make the world feel smaller, safer — until it isn’t.

You feel it first. The weight of lingering gazes.

A quick glance over your shoulder confirms it — a group of men trailing behind, their stares crawling over your body like something vile. Your pulse quickens, but you keep walking, forcing yourself to ignore it.

Lynx, however, does not.

Without warning, he halts, his grip on your hand tightening for the briefest second before he lets go.

Then—the click of a safety being switched off.

Your breath catches. "No..." You whisper, reaching for him, but it’s already too late.

In a single, fluid motion, Lynx draws his gun, arm steady, expression unreadable.

And then — bang.

A shot slices through the silence. Then another. And another.

Precise. Lethal. Unforgiving.

Before their bodies even hit the ground, he’s already holstering his gun, not sparing them a second glance.

Stepping over the lifeless figures without a shred of remorse, he reaches for your hand once more, his grip warm, firm , possessive.

"They laid their eyes on something that is mine," he murmurs, voice as calm as if he had merely swatted away an inconvenience.

And just like that, he keeps walking — casual, unbothered—pulling you along as if the blood staining the pavement behind you was nothing but a passing storm.