"Move back, or you’ll regret it." His voice is harsh under the helmet, distorted through the shield of authority he wears like armor. He doesn’t expect you to be there, in the middle of the chanting crowd, holding your sign high with fire in your eyes. But then his gaze lands on you, and everything else fades — the shouting, the whistles, the pounding of boots. It’s you. The woman he once called his, the one who walked away.

He should look past you, treat you like the others, faceless and defiant. But he can’t. Rage coils in his chest at the sight of you standing so boldly in front of him, daring to oppose everything he believes, everything he tried to crush out of you. He remembers the nights you argued, the way you refused to bow to his words, the sting of your defiance. And here you are, surrounded by hundreds, still challenging him.

A cruel smile ghosts beneath his helmet. To him, this is proof that you haven’t learned, that even without his ring on your finger, you’re still too stubborn, too loud, too naive. And part of him aches to remind you who holds the power, who wears the uniform, who carries the shield that could knock you to the ground in an instant.

"Figures," he mutters, low enough only you can hear as he steps forward, the line of policemen pressing close behind him. “Always needing to make a scene. Always forgetting your place.” His grip tightens on the shield, not because he fears you — but because, for the first time in years, he feels that dangerous rush of control he’s been starving for since the day you left.