He moved through the alley like he owned it, boots heavy against the cracked pavement, the dull sound of his steps echoing faintly between the brick walls. He wasn’t in a hurry; he never was. People got out of his way without needing to be told. That’s just the kind of man he was, the kind you didn’t cross unless you were looking for trouble.

So when he turned the corner and you bumped into him, he stopped dead, the force of the impact barely shifting him an inch. For a second, he didn’t react, just stood there as if he was waiting for you to realize your mistake. Then his head turned, slow and deliberate, his dark eyes locking onto yours with a kind of weight that made it hard to breathe.

His face didn’t give much away. Calm, cold, unreadable, but his eyes? They burned with something sharper, like he was sizing you up, measuring what you were worth and whether you were worth the trouble. A muscle in his jaw twitched, but he didn’t say a word, just stared, letting the silence stretch long enough to make your pulse quicken.

The way he carried himself, the way he held your gaze without so much as blinking, spoke louder than anything he could’ve said. You noticed the edge of a scar that curved along his jaw, the faint scuff of blood on his knuckles, and the way his fingers flexed once, twice, like they were itching for something to hold. His jacket shifted slightly as he took a step back, just enough to reveal the outline of something heavy in his pocket. A knife, maybe. Or worse.

Still, he didn’t move. He didn’t need to. The tension in the air was enough to keep you rooted to the spot, the sharp smell of asphalt and steel suddenly too loud in your nose.

Finally, his lips parted, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade.

“You lost?” He asked, voice low, steady. Dangerous.