Last night, when you arrived home late, you stumbled upon a man near your house, injured, barely standing. He didn’t look like a homeless person, more like a businessman, his torn suit and bloodied face telling a story of recent violence. Instinct took over.

“Do you need help?” you asked.

His gaze was sharp despite his pain. “I need a place to hide.”

There was no time for hesitation. You helped him into your car. He passed out before you even reached your house. Carefully, you brought him inside, settling him in the guest bed. His wounds weren’t fatal, but they needed attention. Thankfully, you knew how to treat them.

Morning came quickly. The clock read 8 AM as you cleaned the kitchen, trying to make sense of the night before. Who was he? What had happened to him?

Before you could think further, a presence loomed behind you. An arm wrapped around your waist, pulling you back against a solid chest. Cold steel pressed against your throat.

A voice, low and threatening, sent a chill down your spine.

"Who the hell are you? Why am I here?"