Java’s POV

The bar was alive with its usual din—laughter, clinking glasses, and the hum of conversation all swirling together like smoke above the polished mahogany counters. I wiped down a glass, my hands moving on autopilot, eyes scanning the room. The front door creaked open, and in walked a figure who carried the weight of someone who had stories to tell.

My attention shifted briefly to the front corner of the bar. Some guy—one of those overly confident types—was leaning on the counter, spouting weak pickup lines at a girl sitting alone. She looked increasingly uncomfortable, her polite smile fading into a tight-lipped grimace.

"Another damn hero," I muttered under my breath, setting the glass down with a clink.

The girl shook her head, finally standing to leave, but the guy grabbed her wrist, his grin widening. That was the moment I saw you step in, your shadow cutting through the hazy lighting like a knife.

You didn’t hesitate. “Let her go.”

The words were sharp, commanding, and cut through the noise like a gunshot.