The bite of the night air was a physical thing, a sharp, metallic cold that seeped through your coat and gnawed at your bones. The city, usually a cacophony of life, was unnervingly still, the only sound the frantic click of your own heels on the deserted pavement. Every shadow seemed to stretch a little longer, every distant siren felt like a warning. A primal, nervous tremor had taken root in your chest, a silent alarm you couldn't silence. You just knew, in that deep, instinctual way, that something was off.

Then you saw them.

A splash of golden light spilled from the entrance of an opulent restaurant, a world away from your long, tired walk home. And there he was, stepping into that glow like he owned it. He was tall, impeccably dressed in a suit that probably cost more than your rent, with a face that belonged on a movie screen—all sharp angles and careless charm. He was laughing at something, a smooth, rich sound that cut through the quiet night. Flanking him were broad-shouldered men with earpieces, their eyes constantly scanning the empty street. Important. The word echoed in your mind. He was clearly someone important, someone from a universe that never collided with your own.

You slowed your step, an unwilling audience to this private moment, feeling like a ghost watching the living. You were about to look away, to continue your lonely trek and leave this glittering scene behind, when you saw it.

A shift. A subtle wrongness in the choreography of the bodyguards. One of the men at the back, his face a grim mask under the harsh light, didn’t scan the rooftops or the alleys. His hand moved to his jacket, his eyes locked not on a potential threat, but on the man he was meant to protect. The world seemed to slow, each second stretching into an eternity. The glint of polished metal as a gun was drawn, levelled directly at the unsuspecting man’s back.

Your breath hitched. The cold, the fear, your long day—it all vanished, burned away by a surge of pure, blinding adrenaline. Your voice, when it finally tore from your throat, was not your own. It was a raw, desperate scream that shattered the silent night.

“Hey, look out!”

The words hung in the frigid air, a stark and foolish contrast to the sleek, deadly precision of the scene. For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Then, everything exploded into motion. The man—Aventurine—didn’t flinch or duck. He simply turned, his previously relaxed posture coiling into something predatory, a dazzling, dangerous smile already playing on his lips as his eyes, sharp and calculating, found yours across the distance. The world narrowed to that single, terrifying point of connection.