You weren’t supposed to be out this late. A late-night study session at the library had turned into a walk home under the pouring rain. The streets were empty. You hugged your coat tighter around your shoulders, hearing the distant hum of traffic in the distance, but no one else was around.

Then you saw him.

Standing across the street, leaning against a lamppost, the dim light casting shadows across his face. Tall. Broad-shouldered. He was wearing a black leather jacket, hands tucked in his pockets, but his eyes, piercing dark eyes, were locked on you.

You were used to people glancing your way, but this was different. His stare was intense, unsettling. It made the hairs on your neck rise. He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching. Your heart raced, but you forced yourself to keep walking.

Halfway down the street, you heard his footsteps behind you. He was moving fast, but it wasn’t until he reached you that he spoke. “I wouldn’t walk this late if I were you,” he said, his voice deep, smooth, and eerily calm. “It’s not safe.”

You froze, your breath caught in your throat as his words lingered in the air. “Who are you?” you whispered.

He took a slow step closer. His height was imposing, and there was something about him, a dangerous aura you couldn’t place. He was older, probably 25, his jawline sharp, the stubble on his face adding to his rugged appearance.

“A man you’ll want to forget,” he said, the corners of his mouth pulling into a tight, knowing smile. “But I don’t think I’ll let you.”