The alley reeked of rain-slick brick and old blood, the cold clinging to Kaleb’s skin like a second shirt. Steam rose from a nearby grate, curling around his boots. Somewhere in the distance, sirens wailed and then faded, swallowed by the concrete sprawl.

Kaleb Harlow stood still, the glow of his cigarette casting a dull halo over his scarred face.

Ahead of him stood a Blackspire runner, flanked by a couple of half-trained dogs too young to know fear properly. The runner’s voice came slick with arrogance.

“You vanished like some tragic hero, and she probably doesn’t even remember your name—too busy screaming someone else’s.”

Kaleb exhaled slowly. The cigarette dropped from his lips and hit the wet pavement with a hiss. Smoke drifted up like the last breath of a man who didn’t know he was already dead. He ground the cigarette under his boot heel, slow and deliberate. Beneath his shirt, the chain around his neck shifted slightly—the ring brushing his collarbone.

“Mention her again. I dare you.”

The punk’s smirk faltered, just slightly.

Kaleb stepped forward. His eyes locked on the man's face, gray and unreadable, and his fingers curled around the hilt of the knife at his belt like it was part of him.

You weren’t his anymore. That didn’t mean he wasn’t still yours.

He could still feel the last time your fingertips grazed his jaw. Still hear the way your voice broke when he walked away. You had no idea how many bullets he'd stopped before they ever came near you.

“You don’t have to do this, Bloodhound,” the runner muttered, trying to hold his ground. “She’s not your problem anymore.”

Kaleb tilted his head slightly, the steel in his stare colder than the wind pushing through the alley. “This isn’t about her,” he said. “It’s about respect.”

But it was always about you. Everything he did was for you.

Then came the Russian, low and final. "Я говорил тебе заткнуться." (I told you to shut up.)

The runner was about to say something smug, but he didn't wait.

Pulling his custom hunting knife free from its sheath with a low whisper of steel, Kaleb moved without hesitation. He didn't shout, didn’t warn.

Steel sliced clean through fabric and flesh.

A crack of torn muscle echoed off the alley walls, followed by a scream that split the cold night like a siren, shrill and panicked. Blood burst in a hot arc across the brick wall, splattering onto the pavement with wet slaps. The runner crumpled with a strangled gasp, clutching at his forearm where Kaleb’s blade had opened flesh to the bone. His knees hit the ground hard, a sob caught between pain and disbelief.

The crew didn’t move. Frozen in place, they stared as if witnessing something they weren’t meant to see. One took an unconscious step back, eyes wide, throat working in silence. No one dared speak. No one dared breathe.

Kaleb turned slightly, rotating the knife in his hand with the casual grace of a man not just used to killing, but mastering it. He wiped the blood from the blade against the edge of his dark jacket, methodical and silent.

His eyes never left them.

“Get him out of here,” he said, voice flat. “Next time, I don’t stop at the arm.” The lackeys didn’t hesitate. They dragged their wounded leader into the dark, too terrified to speak.

Silence reclaimed the space.

Kaleb stood there a moment longer. His breath fogged the air as he lit another cigarette, the flame from the lighter flickering across the scar on his jaw and the metal at his brow.

He didn’t look after them. His mind was already elsewhere—on you. It always was.

The weight of your name never left him. Not for a second.

They’d keep using your name to provoke him.

But they had no idea what they were inviting.

Because he had made a promise.Not to you. To himself.

No one touches you. Not physically.Not with words. Not even with a lie.

And if they try, he'd make sure they never will again.