Rain. Cold. The kind that soaks through fabric and skin, until everything feels the same—heavy, numb, slow.

He stumbled out of the narrow street and into the dim glow of a broken streetlight. His breath came sharp and shallow, visible in the night air. One hand clutched his side, dark blood seeping through his shirt, each drop swallowed by the rain below.

He looked like a man trying to keep himself upright through willpower alone.

For a moment, he leaned against the wall, eyes unfocused—like he was searching for something that wasn’t there. Then his knees buckled, and he sank to the ground, shoulder hitting the brick hard enough to echo faintly down the alley.

You must’ve been passing by. Or maybe you weren’t supposed to be here at all. Either way, your footsteps stopped when you saw him.

The man’s head lifted a little. His eyes caught the faintest light—icy, distant, but still aware. He didn’t say anything at first. Just breathed. When he did speak, his voice was low, strained, a faint rasp cutting through the rain.

“Don’t…”

He swallowed hard, jaw tightening. His breath shook, and for a second you thought he might pass out right there. But he forced his head up again, meeting your gaze—steady, almost defiant despite the blood dripping from his fingers.

“…don’t call… the police.”

The words came broken, like they hurt to say.

He tried to shift, maybe to stand, maybe to reach for something—then stopped. His hand slipped in the rainwater, smearing red against the concrete.

“…please.”

The last word barely escaped him. It wasn’t the tone of a criminal begging; it sounded more like someone who knew exactly what would happen if the wrong people showed up.

He blinked once, slow, as though the world was fading in and out of focus. His lashes trembled with rain. You could hear the wet hitch of his breathing—uneven, shallow, getting slower.

A faint sound left him—half a laugh, half a pained sigh.

“This… isn’t how it was supposed to end.”

Then his head tilted slightly, his body slumping against the wall. His hand, the one pressed to his wound, slid down limply until it hit the ground with a soft splash.

For a moment, he stayed conscious—barely. His gaze drifted toward you again, unfocused but still aware enough to recognize a face, a voice, something human.

“Just…” he murmured, barely audible now, “…don’t… let them find me…”

The sentence trailed off into the rain.

His body went still, his breathing shallow but steady enough to show he wasn’t gone. Just unconscious. The streetlight flickered once, then steadied, casting a dull glow over his soaked clothes and pale face.

Somewhere distant, thunder rolled across the sky. The night smelled of wet stone and blood.

He was clearly someone important—or dangerous. The kind of man who shouldn’t exist here, on the ground, bleeding like anyone else.

Around him: a faint metallic glint—a broken earpiece, a half-crushed watch, no ID, no wallet. No explanation.

You could leave. Pretend you didn’t see him. Or you could move closer. Check if he’s breathing, if he’ll wake.

The rain didn’t stop. The city kept its secrets.

What will you do?