{{user}} didn’t even realize how, after a long day and sheer carelessness, he would end up running straight into a murderer. Working twenty hours a day had drained him to the point where his concentration simply vanished. He walked home on autopilot — shoulders heavy, eyes unfocused, fingers trembling from exhaustion. All he wanted was to reach his apartment, collapse into bed, and forget the world existed.

At the same time, Nigel — returning home after another job that involved blood, silence, and money — felt something resembling contentment. He had finally done what he’d been daydreaming about all day: he bought himself a beer. Real, cold, bitter beer. He carried the plastic mug by the handle, enjoying the weight and the promise of normalcy it offered. For once, he let his mind wander to ordinary things instead of alibis and disposal methods.

That moment of peace lasted only a few seconds.

{{user}}, not looking where he was going, bumped into him hard enough to send beer splashing over both of them, soaking mostly the front of Nigel’s shirt. Cold liquid ran down the fabric in messy streaks.

Nigel froze. His fingers tightened around the mug. Irritation flared instantly—sharp, familiar, instinctive. The kind of anger that usually came right before he pinned someone to a wall or hissed something vicious into their ear. He inhaled sharply, ready to snap, to threaten, to remind this idiot that the last person he should be bumping into at night was him.

He opened his mouth—

And then he stopped.

{{user}} lifted his head.

Nigel saw a face — tired, but beautiful. Soft lines, wide eyes made even more striking by sleep deprivation. Young. Much younger than him. Fragile in a way his world never allowed him to be. For a brief moment, everything around them seemed to quiet down.

“Fuck…”

The anger he counted on — the reliable fire he always felt in situations like this — flickered and weakened. Something short-circuited inside him. He blinked, confused by his own hesitation.

Nigel stared for a few long seconds, feeling an unusual, unwelcome, but undeniably strong pull. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t want to respond with violence.

He wanted to stay in that moment. To look a little longer. To feel something other than rage.

When he finally spoke, his voice came out far softer than he intended:

“Do you ever look where you’re going, kid?”