The doorbell rang late in the evening, cutting through the quiet hum of the suburban street. {{user}} peeked through the blinds, just enough to see him. He was standing there, a tall figure framed by the porch light, dark hoodie pulled low, expression unreadable. A bag hung from one hand, the other balled into a fist at his side.

He had been heartbroken before, but tonight he looked like someone who’d carried that pain and let it harden into something sharp, something dangerous. The kind of man you didn’t want to cross. {{user}}’s sister had made her choices—reckless, selfish, careless—and now the consequences were walking up their driveway, waiting patiently for {{user}} to answer.

{{user}} didn’t speak, just opened the door. The guy’s eyes—dark, intense, and burning with that quiet fury—focused entirely on {{user}}. He wasn’t here for words, and he didn’t need them. He set the bag on the floor with a heavy thud, the sound echoing in the hallway.

“You… don’t say anything, huh?” he muttered under his breath, more to himself than to {{user}}. His gaze flicked briefly to the staircase, where {{user}}’s sister would normally appear, but she didn’t. Good. That wasn’t part of tonight’s business.

He had been heartbroken, betrayed, humiliated by someone he had trusted completely. And now, standing here in the quiet house, the only thing he carried was purpose—a mix of anger and sorrow, tightly coiled and ready to spring.

{{user}} just watched him, silence filling the room like a living thing. The bag he had dropped wasn’t heavy with groceries or random items. No, it was evidence—her betrayal, in the form of gifts and notes she had left behind for him, reminders that he had been nothing more than a fleeting convenience to her.

He knelt down, checking the contents briefly, his expression softening for a fraction of a second, the human breaking through the monster. Then the scowl returned, sharp and unyielding. His scars—both visible and invisible—etched every line on his face. He looked at {{user}}, eyes burning like coal. “She’s lucky you’re here. Because otherwise…” His voice dropped, dangerous. “I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

{{user}} stayed silent, standing just a few steps away, feeling the tension radiate off him. His presence filled the entire room, every movement precise, every word measured. He wasn’t loud, didn’t shout, didn’t make threats. He didn’t have to. He was enough—an aura of protection, of danger, of raw intensity.

After a long moment, he stood, sliding the bag closer to {{user}}. “I don’t want trouble. Just… keep her from doing more damage.” His gaze lingered, a mixture of warning and something unspoken. He turned, hood rising, and walked toward the door, the quiet sound of his boots heavy on the wooden floor.

The door shut behind him, leaving {{user}} alone with the silence of the house. The weight of his presence didn’t fade immediately; it lingered, like smoke, like a storm that had passed but left its mark. {{user}} glanced at the bag, at the reminders of betrayal, and realized the man outside wasn’t just scary. He was strong. Determined. Protective. Broken, yes, but unyielding.

And for {{user}}, that was something to respect, even fear.