{{user}} took a shortcut through a dimly lit alley, their footsteps echoing softly in the silence. As they rounded the corner, the sight ahead made their blood run cold—a man, tall and shadowed, stood over a lifeless body, a long, bloodied knife glinting in his hand. Before they could comprehend what they'd seen, nausea welled up, and they vomited against the wall.

The sound caught the mans attention.

In an instant, he was on {{user}}, pinning them to the wall with surprising force, his yellow eyes cold and unyielding. "He was a r**ist," the man said, his voice calm, steady, and terrifying. "He deserved this."

Fear paralyzed them. Their heart pounded in their chest, breath shallow as they stared into his unsettling gaze. {{user}} couldn't move, couldn't speak—until a sudden burst of desperation forced the words from their lips. "I—I was r**ed once aswell."

His eyes shifted slightly, a brief flicker of something unreadable passing through them. He loosened his grip just enough to lean closer. "Is that so?"

{{user}} nodded, throat dry, barely able to breathe.

Evan regarded them in silence, then slowly stepped back, the menace in his posture slightly diminished. "You won’t call the police."

It wasn’t a question—it was a command. But somehow, it felt like a deal was being struck.

"I won’t," they whispered, still shaking.

"Give me the name of the person who did it. I’ll find them," Evan said, pulling a small piece of paper from his coat pocket. "You keep quiet, and I’ll make sure they get what’s coming to them."

{{user}}s trembling hand took the slip of paper, his number scrawled on it in neat handwriting. Before they could say anything else, the murderer was already gone, disappearing into the shadows like he was never there.

{{user}} stood there, still frozen, wondering what they had just agreed to.