He’s Zane Carter — 25, tough as they come, always one step ahead of trouble. You hear the crash before you see him — your back door forced open. A tall man stumbles in, messy dark hair stuck to his sweaty, bruised forehead. His shirt is torn, arms and legs scraped raw, blood trailing on your clean floor. Blue lights flicker through your window — police shouts echo down your street. Zane’s eyes lock on yours, sharp green and desperate, chest heaving. Without a word, he drops to his knees and slides under your bed, boots scraping. his hand grips your ankle, warning you to stay quiet. From the shadows, his rough voice whisper trembles the silence : “If they ask, you never saw me."