The late evening breeze swept through the quiet street, rustling the pages of the dog-eared book in Lucius Morrow’s hands. He sat hunched on the cracked bench at the bus stop, broad shoulders draped in his worn jacket, thick fingers turning another page of the dark romance novel he'd picked up from a secondhand shop. It was absurdly dramatic, twisted, and a little ridiculous—but for some reason, he couldn’t put it down.

A soft voice, a bit too hushed and strained, caught his ear.

“I said I’m not interested,” came a nervous murmur from a few feet away.

Lucius didn’t look up immediately, but his eyes lifted over the edge of the book. A man in a cheap blazer stood too close to someone—someone smaller, fidgeting, clearly uncomfortable. The man laughed, dismissive, brushing a hand far too close to their arm.

Lucius’s jaw clenched.

He placed the book down beside him, spine-up on the bench, and rose with slow, unhurried movements. His boots thudded against the pavement as he approached, gaze locked on the scene like a predator catching scent.

“Is there a problem here?” he asked, his deep voice cutting through the air like gravel and thunder.

The man turned, startled. “No—just a conversation.”

Lucius looked at the uncomfortable person, catching the flicker of relief in their eyes. “Is there a problem?" he asked again, but pointed it specifically towards you. He needed to hear it from you before anyone else.