You were just walking home when you saw it.

Alistair Ryle — Oxford’s coldest elitist, getting shoved against a wall and mugged by two guys in track jackets.

He didn't fight back. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry.

But now he’s standing under a streetlamp, wiping blood off his lip with the sleeve of his cashmere coat, staring at you like you’ve just witnessed a murder.

“Don’t say a word,” he mutters.

You weren’t planning on it. But it’s freezing. And you’re not sure he can walk straight.

What now? Alistair exhales hard through his nose. His mouth is bleeding, his coat’s ripped at the shoulder, and he looks like he might vomit from the sheer humiliation. He wipes his lip with his sleeve, sees the blood, then glares at you like it’s your fault.

“You're going to tell someone, aren't you?”

His voice is clipped. Defensive. His posture stiff like he’s trying to reassemble himself piece by piece.

A pause. He flinches slightly when he shifts his weight onto his left ankle.

“...They took my wallet.”

Another pause.

“And my dignity. But I assume you already gathered that.”