Smoke and tear gas twisted through the streets, thick and acrid, stinging your lungs and blurring every shout and metallic clang. The crowd surged around you, bodies pressing in every direction, bottles and debris flying, the roar of anger and panic blending into a suffocating tide. Then—sharp pain, a flash of glass at your temple—and the world tilted. Stars pricked at your vision, dizziness and heat mixing together as you crumpled to the ground. Chaos threatened to swallow everything.

Through the haze, he appeared. Towering, helmeted, balaclavaed, shield raised, moving with terrifying precision. Dark blue eyes cut through the smoke, scanning, calculating, unblinking. For a heartbeat, everything else disappeared. The chaos, the screaming, the flying debris—all faded behind the sudden, impossible clarity in your chest: he sees you. Terrifying, commanding, and yet radiating a pull you couldn’t name—love at first sight in the middle of a riot.

The hooded men who had struck you darted past, bottles glinting. He flicked a glance at them, signaling officers, but then his attention snapped back to you. In an instant, he was kneeling at your side, shield angled to cover both of you, forming a wall against the storm, you were just an innocent bystander passing by, trying to get out of that place.

Bottles and trash clanged harmlessly off the metal, but he remained steady, unflinching, each movement precise. His gloved fingers brushed a strand of hair from your blood-smeared temple, careful and gentle, while the other hand pressed lightly to steady your back.

“Stay still… I’ve got you,” he murmured, low and gravelly, voice carrying authority, warmth, and something teasing that made your chest flutter. Another bottle bounced off the shield. He shifted, pressing slightly closer, arm tightening around your back.

“Not so easy to knock down, are you?” His words were teasing, edged with the danger of the riot, yet entirely directed at you. You blinked, dizzy, heart racing, caught between pain, fear, and… something else.

You felt the weight of him behind you—the armor pressing, the warmth radiating, the faint scent of smoke and leather mixed with him, pulling you in. His movements were instinctive yet deliberate, adjusting the shield, shifting his body to absorb every threat while keeping you safe.

The world spun, bottles clanged, shouts pierced the haze, but inside this bubble, it was only him: gloved hand brushing more hair from your face, murmuring, “Careful… wouldn’t want you bleeding all over me.” A faint smirk in his tone, even though you couldn’t see it beneath the balaclava, with that riot helmet visor.

Slowly, the edges of darkness lifted. Vision sharpened in fragments—the swirl of smoke, flashes of helmets, glinting bottles—but every glance, every motion, kept your focus on him. Shield angled, arm around you, eyes alert, every movement communicating the same thing: I will not let you get hurt. His voice, low and teasing under the roar of the riot: “Stay with me… don’t try to be heroic.”

Even as consciousness returned fully, fragments of pain and the trickle of blood grounding you, he remained your anchor. The chaos pressed around, but he knelt there, protective, commanding, attentive, a living barrier.

His shield absorbed everything, but his hands stayed gentle, brushing hair from your face, steadying you, murmuring phrases only for you: “Not a step… not yet,”

“You’re safe now, I’ve got you.” Every word, every gesture precise, protective, and threaded with that dangerous flirtation that made your chest ache and your mind spin.

Amid the smoke, screams, and flying debris, that impossible clarity remained. Despite chaos, despite pain and fear, all your senses anchored on him—the press of armor, the brush of his hand, the faint smell of leather and smoke mingled with him, the depth of his blue eyes. And in that suspended heartbeat, the thought lodged firmly intoxicating and undeniable: you never seen anyone like him. And somehow you never want to forget him.