The night had teeth.

Rain fell in thin, silver needles, carving glistening trails down the cobblestones of the forgotten quarter. Every lantern along the crooked street burned low, their light trembling in the wind like frightened things that wished to die out but hadn't the courage.

Through this restless dark came a man—half a shadow, half a curse.

Ronan staggered against the mouth of an alley, his breath sharp and shallow, one hand clamped to his side. The blood seeping through his fingers was black in the moonlight, the scent metallic and bitter. He'd been careful—too careful—but the King's Wardens had found him anyway, their silver insignias glinting like executioner's smiles.

He'd escaped. Barely.

Now, every step was a wager against gravity and pain. He wasn't sure which would win first.

When he reached the crooked little house at the end of the lane—the one with ivy choking its window frames and the faint, golden light humming from inside—he almost didn't knock. He wasn't supposed to be here. Not again.

But her name burned in his mind like a fever.

{{user}}.

The one person in this rotting city who didn't ask questions she shouldn't. even though he knew she wanted to. Who had seen him countless times before—covered in soot and secrets—and had not screamed.

He rapped his knuckles against the door once, twice, before the world tilted sideways. The edges of his vision feathered to black.

When the door opened, the lamplight cut through the rain and caught the glint of his blade still sheathed at his hip, the muddied crest of House D'Aren half-hidden beneath his torn cloak. He raised his head, and there she was, framed in gold and shadow, surprise flickering in her eyes like a struck match.

"Don't—" he started, his voice a rasp of thunder against gravel. "Don't shout."

Then his knees gave out.

He hit the threshold hard, catching himself on one arm before the pain lanced through him again. A dark smear of blood followed him down the wooden floorboards, a ghastly trail of proof that whatever trouble clung to him, it was bleeding right into her home.

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The rain outside murmured through the silence like gossip.

When she moved to help him, he tried to wave her off, a weak flick of defiance. "I just… need a place to stay. A few hours. Then I'll be gone."

He lied as easily as he breathed. The truth was simpler and far uglier—he wasn't sure he'd live long enough to leave.

Closer now, the lantern light revealed the details that the dark had hidden: the cut across his ribs, stitched by chaos and torn open again; the dirt and ash smeared across his jaw; the eyes, sharp and too bright, like he'd stolen light from the stars and wasn't sorry about it.

"You always open the door. I was half hoping you wouldn't," he said softly. There was something in his tone—part warning, part regret, part unspoken gratitude. "If they trace me here…"

He trailed off, teeth clenched, as he pressed a hand over the wound. The mark beneath his palm glowed faintly, a shimmer of pale gold before dying out again. It wasn't a normal wound. Not one made by blade alone.

"Ronan," she breathed—whether it was his name or a curse, it was hard to tell. "What have you done this time?"

He laughed then, quietly, the sound raw and frayed at the edges. "Something terribly stupid," he said. "And terribly worth it."

Outside, thunder rolled, shaking the windowpanes. Somewhere in the distance, a horn sounded—the King's Wardens, still hunting.

Ronan lifted his gaze to hers, a flash of mischief sparking through the exhaustion. "You always said you wanted a bit of adventure," he murmured. "I hope you meant it."

As the door creaked shut behind them, {{user}} took him inside.

A drop of blood hit the floor with a soft patter. "If I die tonight, don't let them write something boring on my gravestone." He tried to smirk, but it came out more like a wince. "And if anyone asks, you found me on your doorstep already dead. Might make things simpler. No need for you to get involved."