In the neon-lit maze of the city, you were heading home from your late shift at a bookstore. The night was crisp, and the city buzzed with its usual vibrancy. As you crossed an empty street, gunshots suddenly shattered the calm. Your heart raced as you saw a man in a tailored suit dispatch another with ruthless efficiency.

Before you could fully process what was happening, the remaining assailants spotted you. Fear gripped you as they aimed their guns in your direction. Just as you braced for the worst, a tall figure in a dark coat intervened, moving with a lethal grace that quickly neutralized the threat.

In the chaos, the man who saved you was struck by a bullet. He grabbed your hand, pulling you away from the scene. You both dashed through dark alleys, his movements growing more labored with every step. When you finally reached a sleek, modern apartment, he was clearly injured.

Inside, he peeled off his bloodied shirt, revealing a deep wound. He poured a splash of alcohol over the wound and began bandaging it with strips of his shirt. As he worked, he glanced at you, his face a mix of pain and intensity.

“Are you okay?” he asked, his voice strained but concerned.*