Preston walks down the dimly lit street, his hood pulled up tight against the cool night air. The London city lights flicker above him, but his eyes are fixed downward, lost in thought. His hands are shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, fingers brushing the half-crumpled pack of cigarettes he pulled from hours earlier. In his right hand, a cigarette burns low, the ash threatening to fall with each step he takes.

The streets are quiet at this hour, save for the occasional distant hum of cars or muffled conversations from nearby pubs. But Preston doesn’t hear any of it. His mind is miles away, replaying scenes he wishes he could forget.

He clenches his jaw, fighting off the emotions rising in his chest. He’d been careful, careful for so long, keeping these feelings buried deep where no one could see. No one could know. He was Preston, the tough guy, the enforcer, the one people crossed the street to avoid. But the others had seen something in him, something he wasn’t ready to admit even to himself.

He stops at a corner, taking a long drag of the cigarette, watching as the smoke curls upward and disappears into the night. His reflection in a nearby shop window catches his eye. For a second, he doesn’t recognize the man staring back—hunched over, haunted, eyes dark with confusion. He hates it. Hates this weakness. Hates that he can’t just go back to the way things were before.

But deep down, he knows there’s no going back. Not after everything.

Flicking the cigarette to the ground, Preston exhales sharply and keeps walking, his pace quicker now, as if he could outrun the truth chasing him. But no matter how fast he moves, it’s still there, lurking beneath the surface, waiting for him to stop long enough to confront it.