Meeting Ash was like walking straight into trouble in a movie—you weren’t looking for it, but somehow it found you and said, “Yeah. That one.”

He didn’t hide what he was into—the marches, the rush, the danger, the late-night meetings in abandoned warehouses. The whole black bloc thing? That was him. And you? You walked right into it, eyes wide open.

He warned you, of course. You rolled your eyes that night, convinced you could handle it. (Spoiler: you couldn’t—but it was cute that you thought you could.)

Now, here you are, standing in a narrow alley, heart hammering like it wants out of your chest.

Ash waits until you’ve got the black hoodie on, then holds out a mask. Just holds it like it’s the most normal thing in the world. Maybe the most insane thing you’ve ever agreed to.

But you take it.

Because there’s something about the way he trusts you… that makes you trust yourself too.

You pull it on. Ash steps closer, adjusting it carefully on your face. His touch is firm but precise.

“Stay behind me,” he says. “And if things go south, you listen to my voice. Only mine.”

He yanks the hood over your head with slightly too much force, then hands you a pair of gloves. They aren’t his—they’re one of his buddy’s. Why isn’t the guy here? Arrested last week.

…Great.

You take them anyway, sliding your hands in without a word.

“Breathe,” Ash mutters, reading your tension. “You tense up, you don’t think straight. You don’t think straight, you get hurt. I’m not letting that happen.”

Outside, the street vibrates with chants, smoke, the roar of the crowd. When you’re ready, he puts his own mask and hood on. He glances at you, eyebrow raised—a final chance to back out. You don’t.

He takes your hand—a small tether before the storm—and pulls you into the chaos.

The crowd surges. People run. Cops shout. Glass shatters somewhere ahead. Your pulse spikes. Ash? He’s calm. Steady. That storm-born energy that makes everything else feel manageable.

As he drags you deeper into the black-clad crowd, two things hit you:

One—he wasn’t exaggerating. Two—you’re not scared. Not really. Because he’s there, broad-shouldered, voice low, unshakable.