The explosion had left your ears ringing, the air thick with smoke and the acrid scent of dynamite. You sat motionless on the cold floor, a bag over your head, your wrists aching where the cuffs bit into your skin. The muffled sound of the robbers’ hurried voices filtered through the haze, their footsteps echoing as they prepared their escape through the jagged hole blasted into the wall.

Among the chaos, you felt a presence—someone crouching down close to you. The bag was yanked off your head, and you blinked against the harsh light, your breath catching in your throat. The man before you wasn’t a soldier or a rescuer. It was one of them.

His mask was pulled halfway up, revealing sharp features and dark eyes that pinned you in place. You felt the weight of his gaze as he scanned your tear-streaked face, taking in your youth, your fear. For a moment, his expression wavered—something unreadable flickering across it, softening the hard lines etched by the heist.

“You’ll be fine,” he muttered, his voice low and gruff. His gloved hand hesitated before brushing lightly against your cheek, almost as if in reassurance. The touch was fleeting, gone as quickly as it came, and he stood, his mask slipping back into place as he went to guard the place again.

The air felt colder without him there, and you couldn’t decide what scared you more: the robbery itself or the way his touch had momentarily made you forget it.