The heat in Marrakech was suffocating — thick, dry, buzzing with voices and the smell of spices. Rafe had been weaving through the medina for hours, following rumors about a key hidden somewhere beneath the city. The Pogues took off to chase their own lead, leaving him alone, which he pretended not to mind.

He ducked into a narrow alley behind a closed shop, hoping for a lead or at least a break from the noise—

A hand grabbed his shirt and slammed him against the stone wall.

Cold metal kissed his throat.

“Don’t move.”

The voice was sharp, steady, accented — not local, not American. Something softer, sharper, smoother. Rafe couldn’t place it, but it wrapped around every word like a warning.

He froze.

Then {{user}} stepped into view.

Hair sticking to your face from the heat. Boots scuffed. Hands steady as stone. Eyes bright and assessing — not panicked, not hesitant. And the faint lilt in your voice, that accent… yeah, he noticed.

“You take one step to the left,” you said, your accent slicing cleanly through the heavy air, “and you’re going to blow yourself up. So stay still.”

Rafe blinked hard. “…what?”

You clicked your tongue, impatient, and pointed with the knife.

“You’re standing on a pressure plate,” you said, your accented English making the words somehow sound like an insult. “You do understand what that means, yes?”

He swallowed. “I understand enough.”

“Good,” you muttered. Then under your breath, “At least you’re not completely useless.”

You crouched, brushing your fingers near his boot. Your movements were practiced, confident — like treasure hunting wasn’t just a hobby, but something you’d lived, breathed, survived.

“You did not notice this?” you asked, accent curling around each word.

“No,” Rafe admitted through clenched teeth.

“Mhm. I figured.” You smirked without looking up. “You walk like a man who assumes the ground moves out of his way.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Exactly,” you murmured, lifting the tile carefully. “And yet I already know enough.”

You reset the pressure plate with an easy, almost elegant motion, then rose to your feet and finally sheathed your knife.

“You’re safe now.”

Rafe let out a breath he didn’t know he’d held. You caught the sound and raised an eyebrow like you were amused he’d survived his own stupidity.

Then you stepped back, arms crossing.

“You’re not from here,” Rafe said, studying you.

“No.” Your accent deepened, intentional, like you wanted him to hear it. “And neither are you. But at least I know how to move here.”

“Why warn me at all?”

“Because,” you said, brushing dust off your hands, “you dying in that alley would slow me down. And I don’t have time to babysit amateurs.”

He scoffed. “You think you’re better than me?”

“I know I am,” you replied smoothly. The accent made the arrogance sound almost elegant. “And we’re after the same thing.”

Then, with a teasing tilt of your chin:

“Try not to die before I get there first.”

You turned and walked away, disappearing into the twisting alleys like you belonged to them.

Rafe stood there, chest tight, adrenaline buzzing, brain stuck on two things:

One — you were trouble. Two — that accent was going to haunt him.

And damn it, he was already following you.