The city was soft with morning light.

Shadows stretched long across the pavement, and the air held that early chill that made everything feel a little more honest. You walked slowly, coffee in hand, watching the world wake up in fragments—bicycles passing, leaves stirring, a child laughing somewhere far off.

Then you saw him.

Zayne.

In the park just ahead, crouched low near a patch of grass, coat folded beside him, one hand extended toward a stray dog. His other hand rested lightly on his knee, fingers curled, still.

The dog—thin, skittish, fur matted—watched him with wide eyes. It inched forward, nose twitching, paws uncertain.

Zayne didn’t move.

He stayed perfectly still, gaze steady, breath quiet. You could see the way his shoulders softened, the way his expression shifted—less surgeon, more human.

The dog crept closer.

Then bolted.

Zayne didn’t flinch.

He lowered his hand slowly, let it rest on the grass, and watched the dog disappear into the trees. His face didn’t change. But something in his posture did—something small. Something sad.

You didn’t call out.

You just watched.

He sat there for a moment longer, alone in the morning light, surrounded by silence and the echo of footsteps that weren’t coming back.

And in that stillness, you saw him—not the man who saves lives, not the one who always knows what to do.

Just Zayne.

Trying to be gentle.