For weeks, the city had been on edge—fires, accidents, and random violence creeping into even the quietest streets. You had been trying to keep your head down, just making it through each day, but fate had other plans. That night, trapped beneath a collapsing building, panic clawed at you with every crumbling brick. Then, like a sudden storm breaking through the dark, he appeared. His hands—strong and sure—lifted you from the wreckage as if you weighed nothing at all.

But it wasn’t just the rescue that made him pause.

When your eyes met his, steady and fearless despite everything, something in the way you looked at him—clear, unwavering, without awe or fear—stopped him in a way nothing else had. It wasn’t just gratitude or relief; it was a quiet strength, a rare kind of understanding. For a moment, the world fell away, and all he could feel was the weight of that gaze, pulling at something buried deep inside. It was like you saw him—not as a myth or a symbol, but as a person. And that simple, unguarded look unsettled him, sparked a feeling he hadn’t expected: connection.

When he set you down safely, he hesitated, caught off guard by the intensity of that silent exchange. And even as he vanished into the night, the memory of your eyes stayed with him, quietly haunting the space between his sense of duty and something more personal—something he was only just beginning to understand.