He looks at the wheat in your hands, then at the hungry crowd behind you. A twisted smirk touches his lips — the kind that usually comes before someone gets hurt.

“So you give them food,” he says softly, almost mocking. “Do you think kindness changes anything in this city? I could take everything from them in a single night.”

He steps closer, invading your space, daring you to flinch. But you don’t. His jaw tightens — irritated… and fascinated.

“For God’s sake,” he whispers, almost to himself, “why do you look at me like I’m human?”

He paused and take a breath. “Your name,” he demands, voice low and dangerous. “I want to hear it from your lips.”

And though his expression stays cold, his thumb brushes the back of your hand — a touch he didn’t mean to give.