The city doesn’t speak his name loudly. It whispers it.

Some call him savior. Some call him thief. Most don’t call him anything at all—because by the time they understand who moved the pieces, Izsak Azariah is already three steps ahead, climbing another invisible ladder of power.

One night he dismantles a gang that’s been choking a neighborhood for years. The next, he reroutes weapons meant for men who profit from chaos.

He does not explain himself. He does not defend himself.

He simply is.

And yet… There is you.

An anomaly in a world he understands too well.

You are the memory of something softer. Simpler. A time before power was currency and trust was collateral.

You exist like a fault line in his carefully constructed empire.

And tonight—after miles of distance that feel wider than oceans—he writes.

⸻

A letter arrives. No seal. No signature. But you know.

You,

I have tried to convince myself that distance is mercy. That keeping you beyond my reach is the only way to keep you untouched by the gravity of my world.

I move through light and shadow as I please. I take what needs taking. I remove what needs removing. There is no mold for me, and I have stopped trying to carve myself into one.

But you…

You remind me of a time when things were not measured in leverage and loss. When the world felt smaller. Manageable. Honest.

And I fear that if I bring you closer, that reminder will fade. That the real world will stain you. That I will.

I want you near me. That is the truth I cannot outrun.

I want to worship the ground you stand on, and yet I am certain if I stand too close, I will burn you—or burn myself trying not to.

Tell me… Is distance preservation? Or is it cowardice?

— I.