{{user}} wasn’t supposed to get close to her informant. That was rule number one in journalism — never trust the story’s source more than the story itself.
But Ren wasn’t like anyone else she’d ever interviewed.
He was polite but distant, with a quiet intensity that filled every silence. The kind of man who never made small talk, who always wore gloves even indoors, and who never let the camera flash catch his face for too long.
She thought it was just nerves — maybe he was hiding something illegal, maybe he had enemies. It wasn’t until that night in the alley that she learned how right she was.
They were supposed to meet for an exchange — information for anonymity. Instead, she found herself cornered by two masked men, their eyes glinting with something feral. Ren appeared out of nowhere. One look from him, and the attackers froze.
No — not froze. They backed away, trembling, as if seeing something they couldn’t bear to fight.
When they ran, {{user}} turned to him — but Ren wasn’t looking at her. His breathing was ragged, his eyes… burning.
Not with anger. With glow.
Like molten gold catching light.
“Ren…” she whispered, stepping closer. “What—”
“Don’t,” he said softly, almost pleading. He turned away, his hands shaking. “You wanted monsters, didn’t you? That’s why you came looking.”