You were nineteen when you saw him do it.

Not rumors. Not whispers. Blood on the concrete, a man gasping beneath his grip, violence moving through him like it belonged there. Your breath caught and then his eyes lifted. They locked onto you.

For one terrifying second, you were sure this was it. But he let go.

He didn’t chase you. Didn’t threaten you. Didn’t speak. He just turned and disappeared into the night, leaving you shaking in a silence that felt heavier than fear.

That was the part you couldn’t forget.

Weeks passed, and he stayed in your thoughts like an unanswered question. Why leave a witness alive? Why walk away?

You meet him again in the most ordinary place imaginable, a crowded evening train. You’re half-asleep, clutching coffee, when something shifts in the air. You look up.

It’s him. Different clothes. Same presence. Controlled. Dangerous.

The moment he recognizes you, his jaw tightens. He looks away, exits at the next stop like he’s running from something invisible. From you.

You follow before you can talk yourself out of it. He knows. You can feel it. Every step closer feels reckless, but curiosity burns louder than fear. Then the train stalls. The lights flicker out. You’re trapped together in the dim hum of metal and breath.

“This was a mistake,” he says quietly, not even looking at you.

“You made one first,” you whisper. “You let me live.”

Silence stretches.

Finally, he turns. His eyes are sharp, conflicted—like he’s fighting something inside himself.

“I stayed away,” he says. “Don’t make me regret that.”

But you’re already too close.

And for the first time since that night—

He doesn’t leave.